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Book 

PRESESTl 







THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

ROBEKT BTJKXS, 

WITH 

A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE, 

AND 

A GLOSSARY. 



HALIFAX : 

MILNER AND SOWERBY. 
JS53. 



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p. 



o e • 6 c « 
ft • • a . • : 



MEMOIR 

OF 

THE LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



This celebrated Bard was born on the 29th of January, 1759, 
on the banks of the Doon, about two miles from Ayr, near 
to which stand the ruins of AllowayKirk, rendered immortal 
by his admirable Tale of " Tain o' Shantcr." 

His father, William Burns, was a farmer in Ayrshire, a 
man of very respectable character and of more than ordinary 
information and capacity. It is stated by Burns, that to 
his father's observations and experience, he was indebted 
for most of his little pretensions to wisdom. From such a 
son this eulogium cannot be thought undeserving. In 1757 
he married Agnes Brown. Our Poet was the first fruit of 
this union. He was sent to school when about six years old, 
where he was taught to read English and to write a little; 
and so great was his progress, that he became a critic in 
English Grammar at the age of eleven, and was also remark- 
able for the correctness of his pronunciation. His rudiments 
of arithmetic he got from his father in the winter evenings. 
He says of himself, in his letter to Doctor Moore, "At those 
years I was by no means a favourite with any body. I was 
a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy 
something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piety. 
I say, idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though 



IV LIFE OF BURNS. 

it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent 
English scholar; and by the time I was ten or eleven years 
of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and participles. 
In my infant and my boyish days, too, I owed much to an old 
woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her igno- 
rance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the 
largest collection in the country, of tales and songs con- 
cerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, 
spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, appari- 
tions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other 
trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but 
had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, 
in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out 
in suspicious places ; and though nobody can be more scep- 
tical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort 
of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors." 

Before he was nine years of age, he had acquired a strong 
propensity for reading, which, however, was greatly checked 
by his want of access to books. He read the life of Hannibal 
through with great avidity, and eagerly perused every other 
book that came in his way. Even at this early period, his 
sensibility was extraordinary; yet he had not discovered 
any signs of that striking ready wit for which he was after- 
wards remarkable, nor betrayed the smallest symptom of 
his inclinatian to music and poetry. 

About a twelvemonth previous to the death of his father, 
Burns, who had then attained his twenty-fourth year, became 
anxious to be fixed in a situation to enable him to marry. 
His brother Gilbert and he had for several years held a small 
portion of land from their father, on which they chiefly 
raised flax. In disposing of the produce of their labour, our 
Author took it into his head to commence flax-dresser. — 
He accordingly continued at that business for about six 
months, but it proved an unlucky concern ; for the shop 
some time after taking fire, was utterly destroyed, and he 
was left not worth a sixpence. 



LIFE OF BURNS. V 

Immediately before the death of their fat^,r, Bums and 
his brother took the farm at Mossgiel, consisting of 118 
acres, at £90 per annum. It was stocked by the property 
and individual savings of the whole family, and was a joint 
concern. But the first year, from buying bad seed, and the 
second from a late harvest, they lost half their crops. 

It was about this time that he formed the connection with 
Miss Jean Armour, afterwards Mrs. Burns. When the effects 
of this intimacy could no longer be concealed, our Poet, in 
order to screen his partner from the consequences of their 
imprudence, agreed to make a written acknowledgment of 
their marriage, and then endeavour to push his fortune in 
Jamaica, till Providence enabled him to support a family 
comfortably. This was, however, strenuously opposed by 
her relations; and her father, with whom she was a great 
favourite, advised her to renounce every idea of such an 
union, conceiving that a husband in Jamaica was little better 
than none. She was therefore prevailed upon to cancel the 
papers, and thus render the marriage null and void. When 
this was mentioned to Burns, he was in a state bordering on 
distraction. Hp offered to stay at home, and provide for 
his family in the best manner possible ; but even this was 
rejected. 

He then agreed with a Dr. Douglas to go to Jamaica, as 
an assistant overseer or clerk, and made every preparation 
to cross the Atlantic; but, previous to his setting off, he was 
advised to publish a volume of his poems by subscription. 
With the first fruits of his poetical labours, he paid his pas- 
sage, and purchased a few articles of clothing, &c. His 
chest was already on the way to Greenock, when a letter 
from Dr. Bktcklock, signifying his approbation of the poems, 
and an assurance that Burns would meet with encourage- 
ment in Edinburgh for a second edition, completely changed 
his intentions. 

Soon after his arrival in Edinburgh, (early in December, 
17SG,) his poems procured him the admiration of all condi- 



\l LIFE OF BURNS. 

tions. Persons of rank and power were not above taking 
notice of him : and in a short time the name of Barns was 
celebrated over all the kingdom. It ought here to be men- 
tioned to his honour, that he had been in Edinburgh only 
a few months, and was still in the midst of poverty, 
when he erected a monument in Canon-gate church-yard 
to the memory of the celebrated but unfortunate poet, 
Fergusson. 

In Edinburgh, Burns beheld mankind in a new light. 
Surrounded on all sides by admirers, his days were spent in 
the company of the great, his evenings in dissipation. This 
kind of life he led nearly a twelvemonth, when his friends 
suggested to him the necessity of seeking a permanent 
establishment. 

Having settled accounts with his publisher in February 
1788, Burns became master of nearly £500. With this sum 
he returned to Ayrshire, where he found his brother Gilbert 
struggling to support their aged mother, a younger brother, 
and three sisters in the farm of Mossgiel. He immediately 
advanced £200 to their relief. With the remainder, and 
what further profits might accrue to him from his poems, 
Burns seriously resolved to settle for life, and resume the 
occupation of agriculture. 

Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, offered him the choice of a 
farm on his estate at his own terms. Burns readily accepted 
this generous offer. He took with him two friends to value 
the land, and fixed on the farm of Eliisland, about six miles 
above Dumfries, on the banks of the river Kith, on which 
lie entered at Whitsunday, 1788. 

Previously to this period, however, he had been recom- 
mended to the Board of Excise, by Mr. Graham, of Fintra, 
and had his name enrolled among the list of candidates for 
the humble office of an exciseman. Expecting that the Board 
would appoint him to act in the district where his farm was 
situated, he began ass'-duously to qualify himself for the 
proper exercise of the employment, in the fond hopes of 



LIFE OF BURNS. vii 

soon uniting with success the labours of the farmer with the 
duties of his new profession. 

No sooner had he arranged the plan of his future pur- 
suits, than his whole thoughts were bent towards the object 
who had ever been nearest and dearest to his heart. Her 
relations now endeavoured to promote their union with 
more zeal than they had formerly opposed it; and they were 
immediately united by a regular marriage, thus legalizing 
their union, and rendering it permanent for life. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the attention of his 
neighbours, and he soon formed a general acquaintance in 
the district in which he lived. Their social parties, how- 
ever, too often seduced him from his rustic labours and his 
rustic fare, overthrew the unsteady fabric of his resolutions, 
and inflamed those propensities which temperance might 
have weakened, and prudence ultimately suppressed. It was 
not long, therefore, before Burns began to view his fans 
with dislike and despondence, if not wi;h disgust. 

Unfortunately he had for several years looked to an office 
in the excise as a certain means of livelihood, should his 
other expectations fail. As has already been mentioned, he 
had been recommended to the Board of Excise, and had 
received the instructions necessary for such a situation. He 
now applied to be employed; and, by the interest of Mr. 
Graham, of Fintra, was appointed to be exciseman, or, as it 
is vulgarly called, gauger, of the district in which he lived. 
The duties of this disagreeable situation, besides exposing 
him to numberless temptations, occupied that part of his 
time which ought to have been bestowed in cultivating his 
farm; which, after this, was in a great measure abandoned 
to servants. It is easy to conjecture the consequences. 
Notwithstanding the moderation of the rent, and the prudent 
management of Mrs. Burns, he found it convenient, if not 
necessary, to resign his farm into the hands of Mr. Miller, 
after having possessed it for the space of three years and a 
half. The stock and crop being afterwards sold by public 



VIM LIFE OF BURNS. 

auction, he removed, with his family, to a small house in 
Dumfries about the end of the year 1791, to -devote himsol 
to an employment which seemed from the first to afford but 
little hopes of future happiness. 

He resided four years at Dumfries. During this time he 
had hoped for promotion in the excise; but an event oc- 
curred which at least delayed its fulfilment. The events of 
the French revolution were commented on by him in a 
manner very different from what might have been expected 
from an officer under government. Information of thi3 
was given to the Board of Excise. A superior officer in 
that department was authorized to enquire into his conduct. 
Burns defended himself in a letter addressed to one of the 
Board, written with great independence of spirit, and with 
more than his accustomed eloquence. The officer appointed 
to enquire into his conduct gave a favourable report. His 
steady friend, Mr. Graham, of Fintra, interposed his good 
offices in his behalf; and he wa3 suifered to retain his situ- 
ation, but was given to understand that his promotion was 
deferred, and must depend upon his future behaviour. 

In the month of June, 1796, he removed to Brow, in 
Annandale, about ten miles from Dumfries, to try the effect 
of sea-bathing; a remedy that at first, he imagined, relieved 
rheumatic pains in his limbs, with which he had been 
afflicted for some months: but this was immediately followed 
by a new attack, of fever. When brought back to his own 
house in Dumfries, on the 18th of July, he was no longer 
able to stand upright. The fever increased, attended with 
delirium and debility, and on the 21st he expired, in the 
thirty-eighth year of his age. He left a widow and four 
sons. The ceremonial of his interment was accompanied 
with military honours, not only by the corps of Dumfries 
volunteers, of which he was a member, but by the Fenciblo 
Infantry, and a regiment of the Cinque Port Cavalry, then 
quartered in Dumfries. 



DEDICATION. 



TO 

THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 

01- THE 

CALEDONIAN HUNT. 



My Lords and Gentlemen, 
A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest 
ambition is to sing in his Country's service — where shall he 
so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of 
his native land; those who b, j ;:r the honours and inherit the 
virtues of their ancestors ? The Poetic Genius of my country 
found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah d'.d Elisha— at the 
plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She 
bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes, and rural 
pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue : I tuned 
my wild, artless notes as she inspired. She whispered me 
to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay 
my Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her 
dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not ap- 
proach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of 
dedication, to thank you for past favours; that path is so 



X DEDICATION. 

hackneyed by prostituted Learning, that honest Rusticity is 
ashamed of it. Nor do I present this address with the venal 
soul of a servile nuthor, looking for a continuation of those 
favours : I was bred to the plough, and am independent. I 
come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my 
illustrious Conntrymen ; and to tell the world that I glory 
in the title. I come to congratulate my country, that the 
blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and 
that from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she 
may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last 
place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the Great 
Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your 
welfare and happiness. 

"When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in the ancient 
and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure 
ever be of your party; and may Social Joy await your re- 
turn : when harassed in courts or camps, with the jostlings 
of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness 
of injured Worth attend your return to your native seats; 
and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet 
you at your gates! May Corruption shrink at your kindling, 
indignant glance; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and 
licentiousness in the people, equally find you an inexorable 
foe I 

I have the honour to be, 
With the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect, 
My Lords and Gentlemen, 

Your most devoted humble Servant, 

ROBERT BURNS. 
Edinburg\ April 4, 1787 



CONTENTS. 



paos. 

The Twa Dogs, a Tale 1 

Scotch Drink, 8 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer 13 

The Holy Fair ' 19 

Death and Doctor Hornbook 26 

The Brigs of Ayr 33 

The Ordination , 40 

The Calf 44 

Address to the Deil 45 

The Death and dying words of Poor Mailie 50 

Poor Mailie's Elegy 52 

To James Smith, Mauchline 54 

A Dream 60 

The Vision 64 

Address to the unco Gude 74 

Tam Samson's Elegy 76 

Halloween 80 

The Farmer's Salutation to his auld Mare Maggie 90 

To a Mouse 94 

A Winter Night 96 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 99 

The Lamen t 103 

Despondency, an Ode 106 

Winter, a Dirse 108 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 109 

Man was made to mourn, a Dirge 115 

A Prayer in the Prospect of Death 118 

Stanzas on the same Occasion , .... 119 

Verses eft at a Friend's House 120 



Xll CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The First Psalm 121 

A Prayer under the Pressure of violent Anguish ib. 

The first Six Verses of the Nineteenth Psalm 122 

To a Mountain Daisy 123 

To Ruin 1 25 

To Miss Logan 126 

Epistle to a Young Friend ib. 

On a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies 129 

To a Haggis 131 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq 133 

To a Louse 137 

Address to Edinburgh 138 

Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard 141 

To the same 145 

To William Simpson, Ochiltre 149 

Epistle to John Rankin, enclosing some Poems 155 

Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on Nithside 158 

Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. of 159 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson 161 

Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots 165 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintra 167 

Lament for James, Ear] of Glencairn 170 

To Sir John Whitefoord, with the foregoing Poem 172 

Tarn o'Shanter, a Tale 173 

On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me 1 79 

Address to the Shade of Thomson ISO 

On the late Captain Grose's Perigrinations 181 

To Miss Cruikshanks, a very young Lady 183 

On the Death of John M'Leod, &c ". 18* 

The humble Petition of Bruar Water 185 

On scaring some Water-Fowl, in Loch Turit 188 

Written in the Inn at Kenmure, Taymouth 189 

Written at the Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness ISO 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child 191 

Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 192 

Lines on an Interview with Lord Daer 194 

On the Death of a Lap-Dog, named Echo 195 

Inscription to the Memory of Fergusson 196 

Epistle to R. Graham, E q ib. 

Fragment, inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox 199 

To Dr. Blacklock £00 

Prologue spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries 2> s 3 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo -204 



CONTESTS, XUJ 

PAGS, 

The Rights of Woman 205 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle 206 

Verses, to a Young Lady 208 

Verses addressed to a Lady ib. 

Address to Mr. William Tytler , . . 209 

To a Gentleman on receiving a Newspaper 210 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry 212 

Sketch. — New Year's Day 213 

Extempore on the late Mr. William Smeliie 215 

Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Independence .... ib. 

Answer to a Mandate 23 6 

To a Young Lady 218 

Extempore ib. 

To Mr. S**e, with a Present of Porter ib. 

Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell 219 

Sent to a Gentleman whom he had offended 2i0 

Poem on Life , ib. 

Address to the Tooth-ache 222 

Holy Willie's Prayer 223 

Epitaph on Holy Willie 226 

The Kirk's Alarm 227 

Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock 230 

The Twa Herds 231 

To Mrs. Dunlop, on Sensibility 234 

Sonnet on hearing a Thrush 235 

To the Guidwife of Wauchope House 236 

To J. Ranken 233 

Address to an Illegitimate Child 239 

To a Tailor 240 

Lament of a Mother for the Death of her Son 242 

Sonnet on the Deatli of Robert Riddel, Esq 243 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair 244 

Letter to J s T 1, of Gl — nc— r 245 

Verses on a Young Lady 248 

Lines presented to an old Sweetheart, then married.... ib. 

Extempore. — The Invitation 249 

Written in a Lady's Pocket Book ib. 

Lines on Miss J. Scott, of Ayr ib. 

EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, &c. 

On a celebrated Ruling Elder 250 

On a noisy Polpmic ib. 

On Wee Johnny ib 



XIV CONTENTS. 

F10R_ 

For the Author's Father 250| 

For Robert Aiken, Esq 251| 

For Gavin Hamilton, Esq 2ol| 

A Bard's Epitaph ib. 

On John Dove 252 

On a Friend 253 

On a Wag, in Mauchline ib. 

The Henpeck'd Husband ib. 

The Highland Welcome 254 

A Grace before Dinner ib. 

On Captain Grose ib. 

SONGS AND BALLADS. 

The Jolly Beggars 255 

The Rigs o' Barley 267 

Now Westlin Winds 268 

Behind yon Hills where Lugar flows 270 

Green grow the Rashes 271 

Again Rejoicing Nature sees 272 

The gloomy Night is gathering fast 273 

From thee, Eliza, I must go 274 

The Farewell 275 

No Churchman am I 276 

Highland Mary 277 

Auld Rob Morris 273 

Duncan Gray 279 

Galla Water ' 280 

The Soldier's Return 261 

Meg o' the Mill 263 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide ib. 

The Lea-Rig 2&H 

Wandering Willie ii 

Had I a Cave on some wild distant Shore 2K 

Whistle and I'll come to thee, my Lad ib 

Dainty Davie 28 ■ 

Auld Lang Syne 28i 

Robert Bruce's Address at Bannockburn 28£ 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes 290 

She says she lo'es me best of a' 291 

Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks 29 

For a' that and a' that 2f 



O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet. 



n -0 



Her Answer.— tell na me o' wind and *ain iit'j 



CONTENTS. XV 

'AGE. 

Their Groves o' sweet Myrtle 296 

this is na my ain Lassie 297 

Scottish Ballad. — Last May a braw wooer 298 

Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher 299 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear 300 

The Birks of Aberfeldy 301 

Blithe was she - 302 

My Chloris, mark how green the grroves ib. 

1 love my Jean. — Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 303 

Willie brew'd a Peck o' Maut 304 

Tarn Glen 305 

What can a young Lassie do wi' an auld man ? 306 

O, for ane and twen ty, Tam 307 

The Banks o' Doon ib. 

Sic a Wife as Willie had 308 

Wilt thou be my Dearie? 309 

She's fair and fause ib. 

wat ye wha's in you Town 310 

The red, red Rose" 311 

Song of Death 312 

Imitation of an old Jacobite Song 313 

To Mary in Heaven ib. 

Naebody 314 

To Mary 315 

Bonnie Lesley 316 

Mary Morison 317 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill ib. 

Bonnie Jean 318 

Tibbie, I hae seen the day 320 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie 321 

Fair Jenny 322 

• isband, husband, cease your strife ib. 

L ow lang and dreary is the night 304 

"V was the charming month of May ib. 

1 Dntented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair 325 

>anst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 326 

<iy Nannie's awa ib. 

Twas na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin 327 

7 airest Maid on Devon banks 328 

.'he Young Highland Rover ib. 

(_ "here braving angry Winter's Storms 329 

On° Braes o' Ballochmyle ib. 

Ompwell thou Stream that winding flows 330 



XVI CONTEXTS. 

John Anderson my jo 32 

A Rose-bud by my early walk ib 

The joyful Widower 3? 

Fair Eliza 33 

The parting Kiss SS 

Musing on the roaring Ocean ib 

Lord Gregory S3 

Open the Door to me, oh ! S3 

Clarinda S3 

Craigie-burn ib. 

Isabella. — Raving "Winds around her blowing 33 

The W T histle.— I sing of a Whistle 33 

Glossary 34 



POEMS, 

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 



THE TWA DOGS. 



Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
'That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing through the afternoon, 
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dTogs, 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His lockit, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin 
Wi' ony tinkler gipsy's messin : 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stant't as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie, 
17 ' B 



! BUltNS 7 POEMS. 

Wha for his friend and comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne— Gude kens how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithful tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke ; 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
And unco pack and thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit ; 
Whiles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whiles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
And worried ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' daffin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression, 
About the lords of the creation. 



I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An* when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents ; 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell : 
He ca's his coach ; he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonny silken purse, 



* Cachullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. 



BURNS POEMS. 



As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks, 
The yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
And though the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie, 
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 
Better than ony tenant man, 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' ; 
ind what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 



Trowth, Csesar, whiles they're fash't enough ; 

A cottar howkin in a sheugh, 

Wi* dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 

Baring a quarry, and sic like ; 

HiraseP, a wife, he thus sustains, 

A smytrie o' wee duddy weans, 

And nought but his han' darg to keep 

Them right and tight in thack and rape. 

And when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want of masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer 
And they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; 
But how it comes I never kend yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

CESAR. 

But then, to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huff 'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit , 



burns' poems. 

L— d man ! our gentry care sae little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang' as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

Ive noticed, on our Laird's court-day 
And mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they mon thole a factor's snash ; 
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble 
And bear it a' and fear and tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 



They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Though constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gi'es them little fright. 

Then chance and fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
And though fatigued wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rent's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans and faithfu' wives; 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

And whiles twalpenny worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts ; 
Or tell what new taxation's comin, 
And ferlie at the folk in LorCon. 



BURNS POEMS. 

As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns. 
They get the jovial, rantin kirns, 
When rural life o' every station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth 
Forget there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring stream ; 
The lunting pipe, and sneeshing mill, 
Are handed round wi' right gude-will ; 
The canty auld folk cracking crouse, 
The young anes ranting through the hou.-< 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre often playd. 
There's mony a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest-fassont folk, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin, 
For Britain's gude his saul indent in. 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 

For Britain's gude ! gude faith I doubt it 

Say rather, gaun, as Premiers lead him, 

And saying ay or ?io's they bid him ! 

At operas and plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading. 

Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 

To Hague or Calais take a waft, 



i BURNS' POEMS. 

To mak a four and tak a whirl, 
To learn bon ton, and see the war!/ 

There, at Vienna, or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes the route, 
To thrum guitars and fetch t wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles ; 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak himsel look fair and fatter, 
And clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of carnival signoras, 
For Britain's glide ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction. 



Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae monie a braw estate ? 
Are we sae foughten and harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ? 

O wad they stay aback frae courts, 
And please themselves wi' country sports, 
It wad for every ane be better, 
The laird, the tenant, and the cottar ! 
For the frank, ran tin, rambling billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows, 
Except for breaking o' their timmer, 
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shooting o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit, they'r ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Maister Ccesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life of pleasure ! 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
The very thought o't needna fear them, 



burns' poems. 

C^SAR. 
L— dj man ! were ye but whiles where I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
And fill auld age wi J grips and granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themselves to vex them, 
And" aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hart them : 
A country fellow at the pie ugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A country lassie at her wheel ; 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ; 
But gentlemen, and ladies warst, 
WV evendown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank and lazy ; 
Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy , 
Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, tang, and restless \ 
And e'en their spore-, their hails, and races, 
There galloping through public places; 
There's sic parade, sic pomp and art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast oat in party matches, 
Then souther a' in deep debauches : 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, 
Neist day their life is past enduring. 
The ladies arm-in-arm, in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
They're a' run de'ils and jades thegither. 
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup and plaitie, 
They sip the scandal-potion'pretty ; 



BURNS POEMS. 

Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, 
Pore owre the devil's picture beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard, 
And cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man and woman ; 
But this is gentry's life in common. 

By this the sun was out o' sight, 
And darker gloamin brought the night ; 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
When up they gat and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs ; 
And each took afF his several way, 
Resolved to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Gie him strong drink until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair; 
And liqour gude to fire his blude, 

That's prest wi* grief and care; 

There let him bouse, and deep carouse. 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

And minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 



Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus, 

And crabbit names and stories wrack us, 

And grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch Bear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

O thou, my Muse ! gude auld Scotch Drink \ 
Whether through wimpling worms thou iiuk^ 



burns' poems. 

Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
And aits set up their awnie horn, 
And pease and beans at e'en or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumbling in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, 
When heavy dragg'd wi pine and grievin ; 

But, oil'd by thee, 
The w T heels o' life gae down hill, scrievin, 

Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

A ft, clad in massy silkr weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head. 
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine ; 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 



10 burns' poems. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saints, 

By thee ispired, 
When gaping they besiege the tent?. 

Are doubly fired. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin on a New-year mornin 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 

And gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
And ploughmen gather wi' their gaith, 
O rare ! to see thee fizz and freath 

I' the luggit caup ! 
The Burneioiri* comes on like death 

At ev'ry chaup. 

Nae mercy then for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' "sturdy wheel 

The strong foreiiammer, 
Till block and studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight ; 

Wae worth the name ! 
J\ T ae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 



* Burnavin — Bv-m — the — ivind—Vae Blacksmith. 



BURNS' POEMS. 11 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
And just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 
To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To vyte her countrymen wi 3 treason ; 
But monie daily weet their weason 

WI- liqours nice, 
And hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'en spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash \ 
Fell source o' mony a pain and brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt drucken hash 

O hauf his days : 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless deevils like mysel ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthful wines to mell, 

Of foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
And goats torment them inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain, 
Out-owre a glass o' whisky-punch. 

Wi' honest men. 

O Whisky ! soul of plays and pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 



12 burns' poems. 

When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 
Are my poor verses ! 

Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a— s ! 

Thee Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast! 
Now colic grips, and barking hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast, 

Is ta'en awa ! 

Time curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy ban', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice! 

There, seize the blinkers ; 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies, 

For poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a sconce, and Whisky gill, 
And routh o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
And deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



burns' poems. 13 

the author's 
EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF 
COMMONS. 



Dearest of Distillation? last and best 

How art thou lost ! 

Parody on Milton. 



Ye Irish lords, ye knights and squires, 
Wha represent our burghs and shires, 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet muse is hearse ! 

Your Honours' hearts wV grief 'twad pierce, 

To see her sitting on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
And scriechin out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust ? 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' ?ne's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On Aquavit oe ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move their pity. 

* This was written before the act anent the Scottish Dis- 
tilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the author 
return their most grateful thanks. 



14 burns' poems. 

Stand forth, and tell yon Premier Youth, 

The honest, open, naked truth ; 

Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble : 
The muckle deevil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ! 
Speak out, and never fash your thumb : 
Let posts and pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em ; 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gatherin votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, and fidge your back, 

And hum and haw ; 
But raise your arm, and tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissel, 
Her mutchkin-stoup as toom's a whissel ; 
And damm'd Exciseman in a bussel, 

Seizin a Stell, 
Triumphant, crushin't like a mussel, 

Or lampit shell. 

Then, on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard smuggler right behint her, 
And cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner r 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there that hears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's blude rising hot, 



BURNS' P0E3IS. 15 

To see his poor auld Mither's pot 

Tims dung in staves, 

An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trod i' the mire clean out o' sight ! 
But could I like Montgom'rie fight, 

Or gab like Bosicell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 

And tie some hose well. 

God bless your honours ! can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar tli em hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To niak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' St. Stephen's wa's, 

Aula Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true-blue Scot Fse warran ; 

Thee, aith-detesting chaste Kilkerran ;* 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron, 

The laird o' Graham ;t 
An' ane, a chap that's d — n'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

Erskiue, a spunkie Norland billie; 
True Campbells, Frederic~k, an' Ilay ; 

* Sir Adam Ferguson. 
fThe present Duke of Montrose. — (180(0 



ll) burns' poems. 

An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

An' mony ithers, 
Wham auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle; 
Or faith, I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

You'll see't or lang. 
She'll teach you, wi' a reek in whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in cank'rous mood, 
Her lost militia fired her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie!) 
And now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her whisky. 

Ah', L— d, if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt 

I' th' first she meets ! 

Tor God sake, sirs ! then speak her fair? 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An* strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongued tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks 
But gie him't net, my hearty-cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie, 
And send him to his dicing-box 

And snortin lady. 



burns' poems 17 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Bocomioclis, 
I'll be his debt twa rnashlum bannocks, 
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's* 

Nine times a week, 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in gude braid Scotch, 
He needna fear their foul reproach, 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a deevil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promised auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Though by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert, 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and- forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, though a minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place", 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor and hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' soups o' kail and brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St. Jamie's ! 
Your humble poet sings an' prays 

While Rab his name is. 



* A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauchlme, where 
be sometimes studied politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch 
Driak. 

17 c 



IS burns' poems. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let hauf-starved slaves in warmer skies, 
See future wines rich clustering rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blythe and frisky, 
She eyes her free-born, martial boys, 

Tak aff their whisky. 

What though their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range in famished swarms 

The scented groves, 
Or bounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hankering swither 

To stan' or run, 
Till skelp— a shot — they're aff, a' throw ther, 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, sic is royal George's will, 

And there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; 
Death comes ! — \vi' fearless ee he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

And when he fa's, 
His latest draught o» breathin' lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 



burns' poems. 19 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
And raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek, 

In clime and season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland j my auld, respected Mither ! 
Though whyles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam : 
Freedom and Whisky gan thegither, 

Tak arf your dram ! 

THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

His crafty observation ; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask tbat like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and Droad, 

He wrapt him in religion. 

Hypocrisy-la-lTode* 



Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face was fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

And snuff the caller air : 
The rising sun o'er Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin ; 
The hares were hirpling down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin 
Fu' sweet that day. 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland 
for a Sacramental occasion. 



20 burns' poems. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene so gay, 
Three Lizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way ; 
Twa liad manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining, 

Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, and claes ; 
Their visage wither'd, lang, and thin, 

And sour as ony slaes ; 
The third cam up", hap-stap-and -loup, 

As light as ony lambie. 
And wi' a kutchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me. 

Fu' kind that day. 

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonny face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, and laughing as she spak, 

An' taks me by the hands, 
(( Ye for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a' the Ten Commands 

A screed some day. 

" My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

Ti e nearest friend ye hae ; 
And this is Superstition here, 

And that Hijpocrisy. 
I'm gaun to ******** Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in damn : 
Gin ye'll gae there, yon runkled pair, 

We wiil get famous laughin' 

At them this day." 



BURNS POEMS. 

Quoth 1, " Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't : 

I'll get my Sand ay's sark on, 
And meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin !'' 
Then I gaed name at crowdie-time, 

And soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad frae side to side, 

Wi' mony a weary body, 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in riding graith, 

Gaed hoddin by their cottars; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid eiaith, 

Are swingin o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barer! t, thrang, 

In silks and scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet milk-cheese in mony a whang, 

And far Is baked wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy giowr Black Bonnet throws, 

And we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On every side they're gatherin, 
Some gathering dales, some chairs and stool? 

And some are busy blethrin 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An* screen our countra Gentry, 
There racer Jess, an' twa-three wh-res, 

Are blinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittiing jades, 

Wi 3 heaving breast and bare neck, 
And there a batch o' wabstei lads, 

Blackguard in frae K ck 

Tot fan this day. 



22 burns' poems. 

Here some are think in on their sins, 

An' some upon their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs and prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To cha'rs that day. 

O happy is that man and blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin down beside him. 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, 

He sweetly does compose him, 
Which by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

In silent expectation ; 
For M***ie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t — n. 
Should Ilornie as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' G— present him, 
The vera sight o' M***ie's face, 

To's ain het home had sent him 
Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith, 

Wi' rattlin and wi' thumpin ; 
How meekly calm, how wild in wrath, 

He's stampin and he's jumpin ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh ! how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantliaridian plasters, 
On sic a day. 



BURNS F0E3IS. 23 

But hark! the tent has changed its voice: 

There's peace and rest nae langer ; 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 
S**th opens out his cauld harangues 

On practice and on morals ; 
And aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars and barrels 

A lift that da}-. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral powers and reason ? 
His English style, and gestures fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antomine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But near a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

In £uid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poisoned nostrum; 
P**bles, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' G— , 

And meek and mim has view'd it, 
While Common Sense has ta'en the road, 

And aff, and up the Cowgate.* 
Fast, fast that day. 

Wee M****r, neist, the guard relieves, 

And Orthodoxy raibles, 
Though in his heart he weel believes, 

And thinks it auld wife's fables ; 
But faith ! the birkie wants a manse, 

So cannily he hums them ; 

* A street so called which faces the tent in K . 



24 15 urns' poems. 

Although his carnal wit and sense 

Like haffins-way o'ercomes him, 

At times that day. 

Now butt and ben the change-house fills 

WV yill-caup commentators; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

And there the pint-stoup clatters ; 
While thick and tbrang, and loud and lang ; 

Wi' Logic and wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end 

Is like to breed a rupture. 

O' wrath that day. 

Leeze me on Drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either School or College, 
It kindles Wit, it waukens Lear, 

It bangs us fu' o' Knowledge : 
Be't whisky-gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion, 

By night or day. 

The lads and lasses, blythnly bent 

To mind baith soul and body, 
Sit round tlu ^ble weel content, 

And steer ab^ut the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, and that ane's leuk, 

They're making observations ; 
W T hile some are cozie i' the neuk, 

And forming assignations, 

To meet some day. 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
And echoes back return the shouts : 

Black R****l is na spairin ; 



BURNS* rOEMS, 

His piercing words, like Highland swords 
Divide the joints and marrow : 

His talk o' H-ll, whare devils dwell, 
Our vera sauls does harrow!* 

WT fright that day. 

A vast unbottom'd boundless pit, 

Fill'd fu' o' Jo win brunstane, 
Wha's ragin flame, and scorchin heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whan-stane ! 
The hauf asleep start up wi' fear, 

And think they hear it roarin, 
When presently it does appear, 

Twas but some neighbour snorin 
Asleep that day. 

Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How mony stories past, 
And how they crowded to the yill, 

"When they were a' dismist ; 
How drink gaed round, in cogs and caups, 

Amang the farms and benches, 
And cheese and bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt aboat in lunches, 

An' dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash Gudewife, 

And sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuek and her knife ; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld Gudemen, about the grace, 

From side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

And gies them't like a tether, 
Fn' iang that day 

* Shakspeare's Hamlr* 



26 BURNS POEMS. 

Waesuck's for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or raelvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel, 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
And dinna for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day. 

Now ClinTiumbell, wi' rattling tow 

Begins to jow and croon ; 
Some swagger hame the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon ; 
Wi' faith and hope, and love and drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How mony hearts this day converts, 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane 

As soft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' mony jobs that day begin, 

May end in Hougma^andie 
Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd ; 



burns' poems. 27 

Ev'n ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times to vend. 

xind nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a ni°fht befell, 
Is just as true's the Deil's in hell, 

Or Dublin city ; 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took'tent ay 

To free the ditches : 
And hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists and -witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; 
To count her horns wi' a' my pow'r 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'dna tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 

And todlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting mv staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker; 
Though leeward whyles against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That put me in an eerie swither ; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-dangling hang ; 
A three -taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large and lang. 



28 BURNS' I OEMS. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For Sent a warae it had ava ! 

And then its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp, as sraa 

As cheeks o' branks ! 

" Gude-een," quo' I ; " Friend ! hae ye been mawin, 
When ither folk are busy sawin ?"* 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' staun, 

But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, " Friend ! whare ye gaun ? 

Will ye gae back ?" 

It spak rio;ht howe : — " My name is Death — 
But be no rley'd."— Quoth I, " Gude faith, 
Ye're may be come to stop my breath ; 

But tent me, billie; 
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully !" 

"Gudeman," quo' he, " put up your whittle* 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ! 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wadna mind it, no that spittle ; 

Out-owre my beard." 

" Weel, weel/' says I, "a bargain be't; 
Come, gie's your hand, and say we're greet ; 
We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat, 

Come, gie's your news ; 
This whilef ye hae been mony a gate, 

At mony a house." 

* This rencounter happened in seed-time, in 1785. 
t An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. 



burns' poems. 29 

" Ay, ay !" quo' he, and shook his head, 
" It's e'en a Jang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

And choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

And sae maun Death. 

" Sax thousand years are near hand fled, 
Sin' I was to the butch'ring bred, 
And mony a scheme in vain's been laid 

To stap or scaur me ; 
Till ane Hornbook's* taen up the trade, 

And faith he'll waur me. 

" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan 

Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan\ 

And ither chaps, 
The weans baud out their fingers, laughin 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierced mony a gallant heart : 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith nae worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, na farther gane, 
I threw a noble dart at ane : 
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 
But deil-ma-care, 



* This gentleman. Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a brother 
of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula: but, by intuition and 
inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Snrgeon, and Physician 

+ Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 



30 burns' poems. 

It just play'd dirl on the bane, 

But did nae mair. 

" Hornbook was by, wi* ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

O' a kail-runt. 

" I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin-rock. 

" Ev'n them he canna get attended, 
Although their face he ne'r had kenn'd it, 
Tust in a kail-blade and send it ; 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 

At ance he tell'st. 

" And then o* doctor's saws and whittles, 
Of a* dimensions, shapes, and mettles, 
A* kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles, 

He's sure to hae : 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A, B, C. 

" Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees -, 
True sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The farina o' beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 



burns' poems. 31 

u Forbye some new uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus o' capons : 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Distill'd per se; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, 

And monie mae." 

" Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole* now,'* 
Quoth I, " if that the news be true ! 
His braw calf-ward, whare gowans grew 

Sae white and bonny, 
Ts T ae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew : 

They'll ruin Johnny .'" 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, " Ye needna yoke the pleugh, 
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye na fear ; 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh, 

In twa-three year. 

" Where I kili'd ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' bluid, or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill, 
lias clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap and pill. 

" An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

* Thy grave-digger. 



32 burns' poems. 

" A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts ; 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

And pays him well : 
The lad, for twa gude gimmer pets, 

Was Laird himseP. 

" A bonny lass, ye kenn'd her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hoved her waine j 

She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 

" That's just a swatch o' HornbooTts way; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey 

WV his d-mn'd dirt : 

" But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self- conceited Scot 

As dead's a herrin : 
Niest time we meet, I wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin !" 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal 9 

Which rais'd us baith : 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel, 

And sae did Death, 



burns' poems, 33 

THE BRIGS OF AYR: 

A POEM. 
Inscribed to J. Ballantyne, Esq. Ayr. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 

Learning his tuneful trade from every bough; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush , 

The soaring lark, the perching redbreast shrill, 

Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray , wild whistling o'er the hill ; 

Shall he, nurs'd in the Peasant's lowly shed, 

To hardy Independence bravely bred, 

By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, 

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field, 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? 

Or labour hard the panegyric close, 

With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? 

No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 

Fame, honest Fame, his great, his dear reward. 

Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, 

Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 

When Ballantyne befriends his humble name, 

And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 

With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells 

The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap ; 
Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting frosty breath : 
17 D 



34 BURNS POEMS. 

The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnuniber'd buds and flow'rs, delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on evey side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; 
The feather'd field mates, bound by Nature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
j\ r ae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit haul-lang tree; 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze 
While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays. 
'Tvvas in that season, when a simple Bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh o' Ayr, 
By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care, 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 
And down by Simpson's* wheel 'd the left about ; 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether wrapt in meditation high, 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why :) 
The drowsy Dungeon-clocM had number'd two, 
And Wallace Tower\ had sworn the fact was true . 
The tide-swoln frith, with sullen sounding roar, 
Through the still night dashM hoarse along the shore; 
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed ee ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 



A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 
f The two steeples. 



burns' poems. 35 

The ehiHy frost beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering- stream — 

When lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
The clanging suuh of whistling winds he heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Swift as the Goss* drives on the wheeling hare; 
Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers. 
Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside, 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo o'the sp'rirual folk : 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain them, 
And ev'n the very deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appeard of ancient Pictish race, 
The very wrinkles Gothic in his face ; 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warsl'd lang, 
Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams °:ot ; 
Tn's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead. 
Wi 3 virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stauking round wi' anxious search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
It chanc'd his new come neighbour took his ee, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ; 
Wf thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this gude-e'en — 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na, frien', ye'il think ye're nae sheep-shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank, 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith, that day, I doubt, yell never see ; 

* The Goss-hawk, or Falcon. 



36 burns' poems. 

There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path o' a street, 
Where twa wheelbarrows tremble when they meet, 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk, o' stane and lime, 
Compare wi' bonny Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste wad tak the Ducat stream'* 
Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, 
Ere they wad grate their feelings wi' the view 
O' sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! puff'd up wi' windy pride ! 

This mony a year I've stood the flood and tide; 

And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 

I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 

As yet ye little ken about the matter, 

But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 

When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, 

Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 

When from the hills, where springs the brawling Coil, 

Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 

Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, 

Or haunted Garpal\ draws his feeble source, 

Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotting thowes, 

In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes ; 

While crashing ice, born on the roaring speat, 

Sweeps dams, and mills, and brigs, a' to the gate ; 

* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 
+ The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places 
In the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, 
known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously 
to inhabit. 



burns' poems. 37 

And from Glenoxick* down to the Rotten-key,} 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling: sea; 
Then down ye'll hurl — deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the juralie joups up to the pouring skies. 
A lesson, sadly teaching', to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost. 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't ! 
The L— d bethankit that we've tint the gate o't 1 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging, with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 
O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves ; 
Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest ; 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms, like some bedlam-statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided wdiim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air or sea ; 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast; 
Fit only for a doited monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace ; 
Or cuifs'of latter times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our good Brugh denies protection, 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 



* The source of the river Ajr. 
+ A small landing-place above the large key. 



38 burns' poems. 

Ye worthy Proveses and mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye : 
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ; 
Ye Godly Councils wha hae blest this town; 
Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters ; 
(And what wad now be strange) ye godly Writers! 
A' ye douce folk I've born aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what wad ye say or do? 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base degenerate race ! 
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots baud forth a plain braid story ! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, and douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herriment and ruin of the country : 
Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, 
Wha waste yourweel-hain'd gear on d — d new Brigs 
and Harbours ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said enow, 

And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, 

As for your priesthood, I shall say but little. 

Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 

But, under favour o' your langer beard, 

Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd ; 

Tu liken them to your auld-warP squad, 

I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 

To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : 

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 

In a' the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an' raisins, 

Or gather'd liberal views in bonds and seisins. 



BORN 3* POEMS. 39 

If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 

Had shorfd them wi' a glimmer o' his lamp, 

And would to Common-sense for ance betray'd them, 

Plain., dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 



tVhat farther clishmaclavcr might been said, 
»Vhat bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
Xo rnan can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : " 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat,^ 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M' LaucMan* thairm-inspiring Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When through his dear Strathspeys they bore with 

Highland rage, 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspired ! 
JN T o guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief, advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty, hand in hand with Spring ; 

* A well-kno'.v performer of Scottish music on the violin. 



40 burns' poems. 

Then crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming ey%: 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn ; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next fo'.low'd Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feat wild- woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair ;* 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their Iong-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling 
wrath. 

THE ORDINATION. 



For sense, they little owe to frugal Heaven — 
To please the Mob they hide the little given. 



Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw, 

And pour your creeshie nations; 
And ye wha leather rax and draw 

Of a' denominations ; 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane and a' 

And there tak up your stations ; 
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, 

And pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

* The poet here alludes to Mrs. Stewart of Stair.— Stair was 
then in her possession. She afterwards removed to Afton- 
Lodge, on the banks of the Afton, a stream which he after- 
wards celebrated in a song, entitled "Afton Water." 



burns' poems. 41 

Curst Common-Sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in wi' Maggy Lauder,* 
But Oliphant aft made her yell, 

And Russel sair misca'd her ; 
This day M' Kirilay taks the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud her ! 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

And set the bairns to daub her 
WV dirt this day. 

Mak haste and turn King David owre, 

And lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
O' double verse come gie us four, 

And skirl up the Bangor : 
Thi.s day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Xae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For Heresy is in her power, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 
Wi' pith this day, 

Come, let a proper text be read, 

And touch it aff with vigour, 
How graceless Ham\ leugh at his dad, 

Which made Canaan a Niger ; 
Or Phineas\ drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah,k the scaulding jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 
And bind him down wi' caution. 



* Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the 
admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. L. to the 
Laigh Kirk. 

,t Genesis, ix. % Numbers, xxv. § Exodus, iv. 



4*2 BURNS POEMS. 

That stipend is a carnal weed 
He taks but for the fashion ; 

And gie him o'er the flock to feed, 
And punish each transgression j 

Especial rams that cross the breed, 
Gie them sufficient threshin, 

Spare them nae day. 

Now auld Kilmarnock cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu' scanty ; 
JN r ae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty • 
For lapfu's large o' gospel hail 

Shall find thy crib in plenty, 
And runts o' grace, the pick and wale, 

]N T o gien by way o' dainty. 

But ilka day. 

S&e mair by BabeVs streams we 11 weep, 

To think upon our Zion : 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-drying ; 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tuneful cheep. 

And o'er the thairms be trying ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 

And a' like lamb-tails fiyin 

Fu' fast this day ; 

Lang Patronage wi' rod o' aim, 

Has shor'n the Kirk's undoin, 
As lately Fenwic~k. sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! GIencairn t 

He saw mischief was brewin ; 
And, like a godly elect bairn 

He's waled us* out a true ane, 

And sound this dav. 



BURNS POEMS. 43 

Now, Robinson, harangue nae muir, 

But steek your gab for ever ; 
Or try the wicked town o' Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

You may commence a Shaver; 
Or to the Netherton repair, 

An turn a carpet weaver 

Aff-hand this clay. 

Mutrie and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones ; 
And Hornie did the Laig Kirli watch, 

Just like a winkin baudrons ; 
And aye he catclrd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons ; 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 
Fast, fast this day. 

See, see auld Orthodox 's faes, 

She's swinge in through the city, 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow its unco pretty : 
There Learning, wi' his Greek ish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common-Sense is gaun, she says 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her 'plaint this day. 

But there's Morality biraseP 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See how she peels the skin and fell. 

As ane were peeling onions ! 
Now there — they're packed aff to hell 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 



44 burns' poems. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter: 
M'Kinlay, Russel, are the boys 

That heresy can torture : 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

And cow her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

Come bring the tither mutchkin in 

And here's for a conclusion, 
To every New Light* mother's son, 

From this time forth, confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them affin fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR. . 

On his Text, Malachi, chap. iv. ver. 2 — "And they shall 
go forth, and grow up like calves of the stall." 

Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though heretics may laugh ; 
For instance, there's yoursel just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf I 



* New Lights is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for 
those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor, of Norwich, has 
defended so strenuously. 



burls' poems. 45 

And should some patron be so kind 

As bless you wf a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find 

Ye're still as great a Stirk ! 

But if the Lover's raptured hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it every heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot ? 

Tho' when some kind, connubial dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorn?, 
The like has been, that you may wear 

A noble head o' liornl '. 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowt, 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank among the Xowte! 

And when your number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head— 

" Here lies a famous Bullock /" 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



Prince! Chief of many throned pow'rs, 
That led the embattled seraphim to war. 

Milton, 



Thou, whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, 
Clcs'd under hatches. 



46 EURNS' POEMS. 

Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches ; 

Hear me, auld ITangie, for a wee, 
And let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, 

And hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, and great thy fame, 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
And tho' yon lowan heugh's thy name, 

Thou travels far ; 
And faith, thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, rangin like a roarin lion, 
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin ; 
Whyles, on the strong- wing'd tempest fly in, 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 

Unseen thou lurks. 

Fve heard my rev'rend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray, 
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman, 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you buramin, 

Wi' eerie drone ! 
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin, 

Wi' heavy groan ! 



burns' poems. 47 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Ayont the loch ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight ; 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 

Each bristled hair stood like a stake, 

When wi' an eldritch stoor, quaick— quaick— 

Amang the springs 
Away ye squatter'd, like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags 

Wi' wicked speed, 
And in kirkyards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain, 
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witchin skill ; 
And dawtit, twal-piat HawJiie's gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 

Thjence mystic knots mak great abuse 

On young gudeman, fond, keen, and crouse j 

When the best work-loom i' the house 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse } 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
And float the jinglin icy boord, 



18 burns' poems. 

When Water-kelpies haunt the foortl 
By your direction, 

And lighted travelers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

And aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is ; 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 
Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Mason's mystic icord and grip 
In storms and tempests raise ye up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brither ye wad whup 

4ff straight to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonny yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd 
And a' the soul of love they shar'd, 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, 

In shady bow'r : 

Then you, ye auld sneck-drawin* dog ! 

Ye cam to Paradise incog., 

And play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
And gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds and reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 
'Mang better folk. 



burns' poems. 49 

A nd sklented on the man of JJz 
Your spite fu' joke ? 

And how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
And brak him out o' house and hall 
While scabs and blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
And lows'd his ill-tongued wicked scawl, 
Was warst ava'. 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares and fechtin fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 
In prose or rhyme. 

*nd now, auld Cloots, I kenye're think in, 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith! he'll turn a corner, jinkin, 

And cheat you yet. 

But, fare ye weel, auld Niclrie-ben i 

O wad ye tak a thought and men' ! 

Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken- 
Still hae a stake— 

I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake ! 

* Vide Milton, Book VI. 



17 



50 burns' poems. 



THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF 
POOR MAILIE. 



THE AUTHORS ONLY PET YOWE. 

An unco mournfv? Talc. 

As Mailie and her lambs, thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether 
Upon the cloot she coost a hitch, 
And owre she warsled in the ditch 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When ffiighoc* he came doytin by 

Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's, 
Poor Hnghoc like a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand endit. 
By, waes ray heart ! he cou'dna mend it ? 
He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
At length poor Mailie silence brak : 

" O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying zvords attentive hear, 
And bear them to my master dear : 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O ! bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hah 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
And let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs and packs o' woo. 



* A neighbour herd-callan. 



BCUNS* POEMS. 51 

u Tell him, he was a Master kin , 

And aye was gude to me and mine ; 
And now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wf him, 

u O, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, and tods, and butcher's knives ! 
Bat gie them gude cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel : 
And tent them duly, e'en and morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay and rips o' corn. 

u And may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wanreatfu' pets ! 

To slink thro' slaps, and reave and steal 

At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 

So may they, like their great forbears, 

For mony a year come thro' the sheers 

So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 

And bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor toop-7a??ib, my son and heir, 
0, bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
And if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some bavins in his breast ; 
And warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yows at harne ; 
And no to rin and wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

" And neist my yoiuie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop ! 
But aye keep mind to moop and mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel. 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath; 
I leave my blessin wi' you baith ; 
And when you think upon your mi; her, 
Mind to be kind to ane anither, 



52 burns' poems. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell ray master a* my tale ; 
And bid him burn this cursed tether; 
And for thy pains thou's get my blether." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
And clos'd her een amang the dead ! 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes ; 

Poor Mailie 's dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warld's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed ; 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him ; 

She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
And could behave herself wi' mense ; 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 



burns' poems. i>3 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image, in her yoice, 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
And down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' muirland tips, 

Wi* tawted ket, and hairy hips ; 

For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed ! 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man who first did shape 
That vile wanehancie thing— a rape •' 
It maks gude fellows girn and gape 

Wi' chokin dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonny Boon ! 
And wha on Ayr your chanters tune! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead ! 



64 burns' poems. 

TO JAMES SMITH, 

MAUCHLINE. 



Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! 

Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society I 

I owe thee much. Blair* 



Dear Smith, the sleest, pawkie thief, 
That ere attempted stealth or rief, 
You surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun and moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, 

Just gaun to see you, 
And every ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 

That ould capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan, 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, 

She's wrote — the Man, 

Just now I've ta'en the fit of rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi* hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin ? 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; 

Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' ca»h 

Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

And raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash — 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

And damn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But, in requit, 
Has blest me wi' a random shot 

O' countra wit. 

This while my notion's taen a sklent, 
To try my fate in gude black prent ; 
But still the more I'm that way bent, 

Something cries, " Hoo'ie ! 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

"There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Grreek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, 

Their unknown pages." 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs. 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang. 
And teach the lonely heights and howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 



66 burns' poems. 

Till Fate shall snap the brittle thread : 
Then, all unknown, 

I'll lay rae with th' inglorious dead, 
Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' Death begin a tale ? 

Just now we're living sound and hale ; 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave Care o'er side ? 
And large, before Enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 

Is a' enchanted fairy-land, 

Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Make hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand then let us wield : 
For, ance that five-and-forty's speel'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkled face, 
Comes hoastin, hirplin owre the field, 

Wi' creepin pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin, 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin ; 
And fareweel cheerful tankards foamin, 

And social noise ; 
And fareweel dear deluding ivoman, 

The joy o' joys ! 

O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 
We frisk away. 



BURNS* POEMS. 57 

Like school-boys at th 3 expected warning, 
To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near 

Ainang the leaves; 
And tho' the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spat, 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet, and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

Wi' high disdain. 

Wi' steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
Keen Hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul/they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

And ithers, like your humble servan', 
Por wights ! nae rules nor roads observin ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin, 

They zigzag on ; 
Till curst wi' age, obscure and starvin, 

They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil and strainin ! — 
But truce wi' peevish, poor complainin ; 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna wanin ? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remainin 

Let's sing our sang. 



58 burns' foems. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 

And kneel, " Ye powers ! and warm implore, 

Though I should wander terra o'er 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

" Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie line braw claes to fine life-guards, 

And maids of honour : 
And yill and whisky gie to cairds 

Until they sconner. 

" A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. 
But gie me real, sterling wit, 

And I'm content 

" While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down owre my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the Muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious ee I never throws 
Behint ray lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may : 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cooi, 



burns' poems. -59 

Compar'd wi' you— fool! fool! fool! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives a dyke ! 

Nae harebrain'd sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd nameless faces ' 
In arioso trills and graces, 

Ye never stray, 
But, gravissimo, solemn basses, 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise, 

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattling squad • 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

Ye ken the road. — 

Whilst I — but I shall haud me there— 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content, with you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



60 burns' poems. 

A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason 
But surely Dreams were ne'er indited treason. 



[On reading in the public papers, the LAUREATE'S ODE, 
with the other PARADE of June 4, 1786. the Author was 
no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself trans- 
ported to the Birth-day Levee ; and in his dreaming fancy, 
made the following Address.] 

Gude-morning to your Majesty, 

May Heav'n augment your blisses, 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the birth-day dresses 
Sae fine this day. 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 
By mony a lord and lady ! 
• 'God save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang 
That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 
But aye unerring steady, 
On sic a day. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor ; 



burns' poems Gl 

Sae, nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's mony waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day. 

'Tis very true my sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted ; 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

And downa be disputed ; 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right left and clouted, 
And now the third part o' the string, 

And less, will gang about it 
Than did ae day 

Far be't frae me that I aspire, 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or lire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted 'ministration 
To chaps, wha' in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've given auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaster ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God! my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear that, wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

I'm no mistrusting Willlie Pitt, 
When taxes he enlarges, 



62 burns' poems. 

(And WilVs a true gude fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges), 
That he intends to pay your debt. 

And lessen a* your charges ; 
But, G-d sake ! let nae saving fit 

Abridge your bonny barges 

And boats this day. 

Adieu, my Liege t may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection : 
And may ye rax Corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection. 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty and subjection 

This great birth-day. 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonny bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye? 
In bliss, till Fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young potentate of Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

And curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattled dice wi* Charlie, 
By night or day. 



burns' poems. 63 

Vet aft a ragged cowteh been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
Sae ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clishmaclaver : 
There, him* at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,* 

He was an unco shaver 

For mony a day. 

For you, right reverend Osnaburg, 

Nane sets the laicii-sleeves sweeter 
Although a ribband at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer ! 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! and get a wife to hug, 

Or, troth! ye'll stain the mitre 
Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry B reeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley, t stem and stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple-airn, 

And, large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonny blossoms a', 
Qe royal lasses dainty, 

*King Henry V. 
tSir John Falstaff. See Shakspeare's Henry IV.' 
I Alluding to the newspaper-account of a certain Rova* 
Sailor's amour. 



64 burns' poems. 

Heav'n mak you gude as weel as braw, 
And gie you lads a-plenty ! 

But sneer na British Boys awa 
For kings are unco scant aye : 

And German gentles are but'sma' 
They're better just than want aye, 
On ony day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now 

Ye're unco muckle dautit ; 
But ere the course of life be through, 

It may be bitter sautit ; 
And I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggan they hae clautit 
Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST.* 

The sun had clos'd the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
And hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 



* Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a 
digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii.of MTherson' 
translation. 



BURKS' POEMS. 65 

And whan the day had clos'd his ee, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle cheek 

I sat, and ee'd the spewin reek, 

That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking sraeek, 

The auld clay biggin ; 
And heard the restless rattons squeak 



A' in this motty, misty clime, 

I backward mus'd on wasted time, 

How I had spent my youthf'u' prime, 

And done nae thing, 
But stringing blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to gude advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or struttit in a bank, and clarkit 

My cash-account ; 
While here, half-mad, half- fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt ring, Blockhead ! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, wad be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath — 

When, click ! the string the sneck did drav* ; 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa', 
And by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

New bleezing bright, 
17 f 



66 BURKS' POEMS. 

A tight, outlandish hizzie, I) raw, 
Come full in sight. 

Ye needna doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht : 
I glow'rd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly -boughs 
Were twisted, graceful, round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
And come to stop those reckless vows 

Wad soon been broken. 

A ' harebrain'd, sentimental trace' 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen wi' honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And sic a leg ! my bonny Jean 

Could on;y peer it ; 
Sue straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else cam near it. 

Her mantle large, o' greenish hue, 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights dead, shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grand, 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 

A well-known land. 



burns' poems; 67 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost, 
There, mountains to the skies were tost ; 
Here, tumbling billows marked the coast, 

WT surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 

Here Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods, 
There, well-fed Incine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw through his woods. 

On to the shore ; 
And mony a lesser torrent scuds, 

Vt T seemin roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 

An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 

Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair, 

Or ruins pendent in the air, 

Uold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

Wi' feature stern. 

3Iy heart did glowing transport feel, 

To see a race* heroic wheel, 

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 

In sturdy blows : 
While back recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their southron foes. 



' The Wallaces, 



68 burns' poems. 

His Country's Saviour,* mark him well ; 
Bold Richardton'si heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark,X who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And He, whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a scepter'd Pictish% shade 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, pourtray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismayed, 

They strode along. 

Through many a wild romantic grove.|| 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love), 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential aweH 
The learned sire and son I saw. 

* William Wallace. 

t Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to the immortal 
preserver of Scottish independence. 

| Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command 
under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the 
banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was 
principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour 
of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after 
the action. 

§ Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle 
is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the 
family seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfleld, where his 
burial-place is still shewn. 

|| Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justice Clerk. 

^ Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present Professor 
Stewart. 



burns' poems. 

To Nature's God and Nature's lav* 

They gave their lore : 

This, all its source and end to draw, 
That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward* I well could spv, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 



DTJAN SECOND 

With musing deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenl y-seeming fair; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

" All hail ! my own inspired Bard, 
In me thy native Muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate as hard, 

Thus noorly low! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

" Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts and arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 



• Colonel Fullarton. 



70 burns' poems. 

" They Scotia's race among them share 9 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart ; 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the hand. 

" And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page . 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspiring tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Seattle sung 

His i Ministrel lays ;' 
Or tore, with nobler ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

" To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind. 
The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hina, 

The Artisan ; 
All chuse, as various they're inclin'd 

The various man. 

" When yellow wave3 the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; 



burns' poems. 71 

Some teach to meliorate the plain 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Bly the o'er" the hill. 

" Some hint the lover's harmless wile : 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some sooth the lab'rer's weary toil 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

" Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embrvotic trace 

Of rustic Bard! 
And careful note each op'ning grace. 

A guide and guard. 

" Of these am I—Coila my name ; 

And this district as mine I claim, 

Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame. 

Held ruling pow'r ; 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 

Thy" natal hour. 

u With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroll'd chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple artless lays 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 



72 burns' poems. 

I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or when the deep green-mantled earth 
Warm cheris'd every flow'ret : s birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love. 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reapers' rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

" When youthful Love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Kee/i-shivering shot thy nerves alon^, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven ! 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

" I taught thy manners- painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, owre all my wide domains, 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Collars plains, 

Become thy friends. 



burns' poems. 73 

" Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape- glow, 
Or wake the bosom -melting throe 

With Shenst one's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

" Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
Though large the forest monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 

" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic Bard. 

# - 

" To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of Man 

With soul erect ! 
And trust, the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

" And wear thou this" — she solemn said, 
And bound the Holly round my head ; 
And polish'd leaves and berries red 

Did rustling play; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



74 u urns' poems. 

ADDRESS 

TO 1 HE UNCO GUDE, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS 



My son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them aye thegither; 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither: 

The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some piles o' caff in ; 
Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' dafSn. 

Solomon. — Eccles. vii. 16 



O Ye wha are sae gude 3 oursel 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebour's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' store o' water, 
The heapit happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaiket Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Wad here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings, and mischances. 

Ye see your state wf theirs compar'd 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What makes the mighty difttr ? 



BURNS J70E3I3. 

Discount what scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye pride in. 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a whallop, 
What ragins must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop ; 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way j 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail/ 

It maks an unco lee-way. 

See Social Life and Glee sit down, 

A' joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transinugrify'd, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking ; 
O wad they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Tied up in godly laces, 
Before you gie poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination 

But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman, 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang ; 

To step aside ^is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

Tiie moving why they do it ; 



76 burns' poems. 

And just as lamely can ye mark, 
How far perhaps they rue it. 

Wha made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each cord, its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But ken na what's resisiet. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. 



An honest man's the noblest work of God. — Pope. 



Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil ? 
Or great M i Kinlay\ thrawn his heel ? 
Or RobinsonX again grown weel, 

To preach and read ? 
" Na, waur than a' !" cries ilka chiel, 

" Tarn Samson's dead." 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane, 
And sigh, and sab, and greet her lane, 

* When this worthy old sportsman went out last muir-fowl 
season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last 
of his fields," and expressed an ardent wish to die and be 
buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his 
elegy and epitaph. 

t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. 
Vide the " Ordination," stanza 2. 

j Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who 
was at that time ailing. For him see also the "Ordination," 
stanza 9. 



BURNS POEMS. 77 

And deed her bairns, man wife, and wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tarn Samson's dead. 

The brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in wofu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gien the Lodge an uneo deve 1 , 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When Winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the loughs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

He was the king o' a' the core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score^ 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately saumont sail, 
And trouts bedrop'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels, weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie muirococks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your fuds fu' braw 
Withouten dread ; 



78 BURNS' POEMS. 

Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tarn Samson's dead. 

That wofu' morn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shooting-graith adornd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, och ! he gaed, and ne'er return'd 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters , 
In vain the burns come down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now every auid wife, greeting, clatter?, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Owre monie a weary hag he limpit, 
And aye the tither shot he thumpit. 
Till coward Death behint him jumpfi, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi tout o' trumpet, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' wee 1- aim 'd heed ; 
" Lord five!" he cried, and owre did stagger; 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman-youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote in rhyming blether, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



BOURNS' POEMS. 

There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mouldering breast 
Some spiteful' muirfowl bigs her nest 

To hatch and breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his rnem'ry crave 

O' pouther and lead; 
Till Echo answers frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa fauts, or may be three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social honest man want we — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam: Samson's weel-worn clay here lie?. 
Ye canting zealots spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye win near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly 

Through a' the streets and neuks o' Killie,* 

Tell every social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin ; 
For yet, unscaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samson's limn ' 

* Kilmarnock. 



80 burns' poems. 



HALLOWEEN.* 

The following Poem will, by many readers, be well enough 
understood ; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted 
with the manners and traditions of the country where the 
scene is cast, Notes are added, to give some account of the 
principal Charms and Spells of that night, so big with 
Prophecy to the Peasantry in the West of Scotland. The 
passion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the 
history of Human Nature in its rude state, in all ages and 
nations; and it may be some entertainment in a philosophic 
mind, if any such should honour the author with a perusal, 
to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in 
our own. 



Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith, 



Upon that night, -when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Doivnansf dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance : 
Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the Cove,\ to stray and rove 

Amang the rocks and streams, 

To sport that night, 

* Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other 
mischief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful mid- 
night errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, 
are said, on that night, to hold a grand anniversary. 

+ Certain little romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neigh- 
bourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. 

I A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of 
Colean, which, as well as Cassilis Downaus, is famed in 
country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies. 



BURNS' POEMS. 81 

Amang the bonny winding banks, 

Where Doon rins wimplin clear, 
Where Brttce* ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

And shook the Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly contra folks 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, and pou their stocks, 

And haud their Halloween, 

Fu' blithe that night. 

The lasses feat, and cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, and w r arm, and kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wf wooer-babs, 

Well knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, and some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin, 

Whyles fast at night. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 
Their stocks^ maun a' be sought ance; 

They steek their een, and graip and wale, 
For muckle anes, and straught anes. 

* The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, 
the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick. 

tThe first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a stock, 
or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes 
shut, and pull the first they meet with ; its being big or little, 
straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the 
object of all their spells — the husband or wife. If any yird, 
or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher or fortune; and 
the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is 
indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, 
the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the 
runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; 
and the Christian names of the people whom chance brine's 
into the house, are according to the priority of placing the 
runts, the names in question. 

17 G 



82 BURNS 7 POEMS. 

Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift. 

And wander'd thro' the bow-kail, 
And pou't, for want o' better shift, 
A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar and cry a' throii'ther; 
The very wee things, todlin, rin 

WV stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
And gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi* cannie care they've plac'd them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw frae 'mang them a', 

To pou their stalks o' corn ;* 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about 

Behind the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard and fast ; 

Loud skirled a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiutiin i' the fause-housef 
Wi' him that night. 

The auld gudewife's weel-hordec nits.$ 
Are round and round divided, 

*They go to the barn-yard and pull each, at thre* 
several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants tht J 
top-pickle, that is the grain at the top of the stalk, the party 
in question will come to the mariage-bed any thing but a 
maid. 

tWhen the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green 
or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c. makes 
a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side 
which is most exposed to the wind; this he calls a fause- 
house. 

* Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the 
.ad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the 



burns' poems. S3 

And monie lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

And burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 

And jump out-owre the chimlie 
Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie ee ; 

Wha twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, and this is me, 

She says in to hersel : 
He bleez ; d owre her, and she owre him, 

As they wad never raair part ; 
'Till furl! he started up the Lum, 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart, 
To see : t that night, 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
And Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compar'd to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap oat wi' pridefu' fling, 

And her ain fit it brant it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor by jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 
To be that night 

Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

She pits herself and Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're sobbin : 
Nell's heart was dancing at the view ; 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 

fire ; and accord Dgly as they burn quietly together, or start 
from beside one mother, the course and issue o ? the court- 
ship will be. 



84 burns' poems. 

Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonny mou, 
Fu' cozie in the neuk fort, 

Unseen that night. 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell, 
She lea'es them gashin at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

And to the kiln she goes then, 
And darklins graipit for the banks, 

And in the blue-clew* throws them, 
Right fear't that night* 

And ay she win't, and aye she swat ; 

I wat she made nae jaukin : 
Till something held within the pat, 

Gude L — d ! but she was quakin ! 
But whether 'twas the De'il himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She didna wait on talkin 

To spier that night. 

Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 
" Will ye go wi' me, Grannie ? 

I'll eat the apple t at the glass 
I gat frae uncle Johnnie : 



* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly 
observe these directions : Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, 
and, darkling, throw in the pot a clew of blue yarn; wind 
it in a new clew off the old one ; and, towards the latter end, 
something will hold the thread; demand, Wha hauds? i.e. 
who holds ? an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, 
by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse. 

t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an 
apple before it; and some traditions say, you should comb 



burns' poems. 55 



She fufTd her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 
In wrath she was sae vap'rin, 

She notic'd na, an aizle brunt 
Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

How dare you try sic sportin, 
As seek the foul thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For mony a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' liv'd and died deleeret 
On sic a night. 

" Ae hairst afore the Sherra-Moor, 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was no past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cold and wat, 

And stuff was unco green ; 
And ay a rantin kirn we gat, 

And* just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

•* Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever sturdy fallow : 
He's sin gat Epple Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achmacalla; 
He gat hemp-seed,* I mind it weel, 

And he made unco light o't ; 



your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal com- 
panion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over 
your shoulder. 

* Steal out, unperceived, and sow an handful of hemp- 
Beed, harrowing it with any thing you can conveniently 



86 BURNS 7 POEMS. 

Bat rnony a day was by himsel, 
He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

And he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck 

For it was a' but nonsense : 
The auld gudeman raught down the pock, 

And out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Some time when nae ane seed him, 
And try't that night. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow tacks, 

And haurls at his curpin : 
And ev'ry now and then, he says, 

" Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
And her that is to be ray lass, 

Come after me and draw thee, 
As fast this night." 

He whistled up Lord Lennox' march, 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd and eerie : 



draw after you. Repeat, now and then, "Hemp-seed, I 
saw thee, hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is 
to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee." Look 
over your left shoulder, and you will see the person invoked, 
in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, 
"Come after me and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in 
which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, 
and say, "Come after me, and harrow thee." 



BURNS' POEMS. 87 

Till presently he hears a squeak. 

And then a grane an' grimile ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

And tumbled wi 3 a wintle 

Out-owre that night 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
And young and auld cam rinnin out, 

To hear the sad narration ; 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or Crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ■■ ' 

And wha was it bat grumphie 

Asteer that night. 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gane , 

To win three iceehts o' naething ;* 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She put but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

And twf red-cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see .Tarn Kipples 

That verv night. 



* This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived and 
alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking 
them off the hinges if possible, for there is danger that the 
being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some 
mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the 
corn, which, in our country dialect, we call a wecht, and go 
through all the attitudes of leUing down corn against the 
wind. Repeat it three times : and the third time an appa- 
rition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door and 
out at the other, having botli the figure in emestion, and the 
appearance or retinue marking the employment or station 
in life. 



88 burns' poems. 

She turns the key wi' eannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters : 
A ratton rattled up the wa', 

And she cried, L— d preserve her! 
And ran thro' midden-hole and a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 
Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack hefaddom'd thrice* 

Was timmer propt for thrawin : 
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, 

For some black grousome carlin ; 
And loot a winze, and drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin 

Aff 's nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As cantie as a kittlin ; 
But, och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She gat a fearfu' settlin ! 
She thro* the whins, and by the cairn, 

And owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn J 

To dip her left sark sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 



* Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a bean-stack, 
and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the 
last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of youf 
future conjugal yoke-fellow. 

t You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a 
south-running spring, or rivulet, where "three lairds' 
lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in 
sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. 



burns' poems. 89 

Whyles owre the linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
"Whyles round a rocky scar it stays, 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cockit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 



Amang the brachens, on the brae, 

Between her and the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up and gae a croon; 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock-height she jumpit; 
But miss'd a fit, and in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 
The higgles three* are ranged, 

And every time great care is ta'en 
To see them duly changed ! 



Lie awake ; and, some time near midnight, an apparition 
having the exact figure of the grand object in question, 
will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it. 
* Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in 
another, and leave the third empty. Blindfold a person, 
and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged : he 
(or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, 
the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matri- 
mony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, 
it foretels, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is 
repeated three times; and every time the arrangement oi 
the dishes is altered. 



90 burns' poems. 

Auld Uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 
Sin Mar's year did desire, 

Because he gat the toora dish thrice, 
He heav'd them on the fiie ; 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they didna weary ; * 
And unco tales, and funny jokes, 

Their sports were cheap and cheery. 
Till butter'd so'ns** wi' fragrant lunt, 

Sets a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 
* They parted aff careerin 

Fu' blythe that night. 



THE 

AULD FARMER'S 

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD 
MARE MAGGIE, 

On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn to hansel in the 
New Year. 

A Ghide Neiu-Year I wish thee, Maggie! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie ; 
Tho' thou's howe-backitnow, and knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 

Out-owre the* lay. 

Tho* now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, 
And thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 



* Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is ahvays 
the Halloween supper. 



burns' poems. 91 

I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonny gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
X filly buirdly, steeve, and swank, 
And set weel down a shapely shank 

As e'er tread yird ; 
And could hae flown out-owre a stank 

Like ony bird, 

It's now some nine-and-twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere, 
He gied me tbee, o' tocher clear, 

And fifty mark : 
Though it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear 

And thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funny, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely tawie. quiet, and cannie, 

And unco sonsie. 

That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride. 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride: 
And sweet and gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, 
And wintie like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a j inker noble, 

For heels and whv. 



92 BURNS' POEMS. 

And ran them till they a' did wauble 
Far, far behin'. 

When thou and I were young and skeigh, 

And stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 

How thou wad prance, and snort, and skreigh, 

And tak the road, 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 

And ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, and I was mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At brooses thou had ne'er a fallow, 

For pith and speed ; 
But every tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma' droop-rumpl't hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waurt thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

And gar't them whaizle ; 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a whattle 

O' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble Jittie-lan' 

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; 

Aft thee and I, in aught hours gaun, 

On gude March weather, 
Has turn'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and fliskit, 
But thy au'd tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
And spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 

Wi' pith and power, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 

An' slypet owre. 



burns' poems. 93 

When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep, 
And threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap, 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 

The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it : 

Thou never lap. and sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't.awa, 

That thou hast Durst : 
They drew me thretteen pund and twa, 

The very warst. 

Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
And wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
And mony an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age were brought ! 

WT something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan', 
That now, perhaps, thou's less deservin, 
And thy auld days may end in starvin, 

For my last fou, 
A heapit st impart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; - 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 



04 BURKS' POEMS. 

Wi' tentie care I'll fit thy tether 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
" Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH* 

November } 1785, 

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie ! 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hastie, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'rin pattle. 

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion, 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 

An' felloio- mortal. 

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve : 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live 
A daimen-icker in a ihrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a bleesing wi' the lave, 

And never miss't. 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
An naething now to big a new ane 
O' foggage green ! 



burns' poems. 95 

An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 
Baith snell and keen ! 

Tbou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 
An' weary winter coming: fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hafd, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

And cranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain: 
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men 

Gans: aft a-gley, 
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promis'd joy. 

Sti-1 thou art blest, compar'd wi' me : 
The present only toucheth thee ; 
But, och! I backward cast my ee, 

On prospects drear ! 
* "d forward, though I carina sec. 

I guess a.n' Jear, 



96 burns' poems. 

A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these? — 

SJtakspeare. 



When biting Boreas' fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r 

Far south the lift — 
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet bock'd, 

, Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning the doors and winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle, 

O' winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprat tie 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing ! 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

And close thy ee ? 



burns' poems. 97 

£v'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 
The blood-stahrd roost, and sheep-cot spoil'd, 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffl'd, view'd the dreary plain, 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, stole ■ 

" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust I 
And ireeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice, unrepenting, 
Than heav'n-illumin'd Man on brother Man bestows. 

See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
Woe, want, and murder, o'er a land ! 

Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 

The parasite empoisoning her ear, 

With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud Property extended wide, 

And eyes the simple, rustic Hind, 
Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 

A creature of another kind, 

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below. 

Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 

With lordly Honour's lofty brow, 
The pow'rs you proudly own? 

H 



08 burns' poems. 

Fs there, beneath Love's noble name, 

Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim. 
To bless himself alone ? 

Mark maiden-innocence a prey 
To love-pretending snares ; 

This boasted honour turns away, 

Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing prny'rs! 

Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest. 

She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk on beds of down, 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched late, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Iil-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 

Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 

Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine ! 

Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 

But shall thy regal rage pursue 

The wretch already crushed low 

By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress ; 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !" 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hail'd the morning wi' a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind- 
Through all His works abroad, 

The heart benevolent and kind 
The most resembles God. 



builds' poems, 99 

EPISTLE TO DAVIE,* 

A BROTHER POET. 

January . 

While winds frae aff Ben- Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle. 
I set me down to pass the rime, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In namely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla-lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 
Thaf live sae bien air" snug : 
I tent less, and want less, 

Their roomy fire-side; 
But hanker and canker 
To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's power 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shard ; 
How best o' chiels are whyles in want. 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Though we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier: 
" Mair spier na, nor fear na,"t 
Auld Age ne'er mind a teg; 
The last o't the warst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

'David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, Lit- aulSur ot 
, Volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect. 
t Ramsay. 



Loft; 



100 burns' poems. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en 

When banes are crazed, and blude is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could mak us blest; 
Ev'n then sometimes, we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However Fortune kick the ba', 
Has ay some cause to smile ; 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
JVae mair then, we'll care then, 
Xae farther can we fa'. 

What tho' like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet Nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
Wi' honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year : 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And sing't when we hae done. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin rauckle mair : 
It's no in books, its no in lair, 

To make us truly blest : 
If Happiness hae not her seat, 

And centre in the breast; 



burns' poems. 101 



We may be wise, or rich, or great 
But never can be blest : 
Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay 
That makes us right or wrang. 



Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 

Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 

God's creatures thev oppress ! 

Or else, neglecting a' that's gude, 

They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell ; 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 



Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit o' age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel ; 
They make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses and crosses 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'll find nae ither where. 



102 burns' forms. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts, 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flat'ry I detest), 
This life has joys for you and I, 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy, 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover and the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean : 
It warms me, it charms me, 

To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' oh flame. 

O, all ye Pow'rs, who rule above ! 
O, Thou, whose very self art Love ' 
Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro" my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief, 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, all-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ! 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 103 

And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens, 

The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The read}- measure rins as fine 
As Phcebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hileh, and stilt, and jimp, 
An rin an unco fit ; 
But lest then, the beast then, 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now, 
His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED BY THE UXFOHTU^-kTE ISSUE OF A FiilSXD'i 
AMOUB. 



Alas! how oft does Goodness wound itself! 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of wo. 

Rome. 



O Thou pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 

Thou see'st a wretch that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep ! 



104 burns' poems. 

With wo I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam, 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

I joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill ; 
I joyless view thy trembling horn 

Reflected in the gurgling rill ; 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease ' 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ! 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lamenting claim j 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame ; 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested Powers above ; 
The promised Father's tender name ; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptured moments flown ! 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone ! 
And must I think it ! is she gone ? 

My sacred heart's exulting boast ! 
And does she heedless hear my groan? 

And is she ever, ever lost? * 

O ! can she bear so base a heart, 
So lost to honour, lost to truth, 

As from the fondest lover part, 
The plighted husband of her youth f 

Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie through rough distress! 



burns' poems. 105 

Then who her pangs and pains will sooth. 
Her sorrows share, and make them less ! 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ 'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n every ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a icisJi to gild the gloom ! 

The morn that warms th' approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and wo : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang and many a throe, 

Keen Recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore harass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief : 
Or, if I slumber, Fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : 
Even day, all bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror- breathing night. 

O thou bright queen, who o'er the expanse, 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway : 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly, wand'ring, stray ; 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While Love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark thy mutual kindling eye. 



106 BURKS' POEMS 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance eel ! 

Scenes, never, never to return ; 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 
• Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From every joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander through ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY. 



Opphess'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I set me down and sigh : 
O life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 

What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me through, 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 
My woes here shall close ne'er. 
But with the closing tomb ! 

Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ; 
Even when the wished end's denied, 
Yet while the busy means are plied, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 



burns' P0EIM3. 107 



Meet every sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same. 
You, bustling, and justling, 

Forget each grief and pain ; 
I listless, yet restless, 
Find every prospect vain. 



How blest the Solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, ail forgot 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild, with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newiy-gatherd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his evening thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream ; 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heaven on high 
As wand 'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn skv. 



Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd, 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art ; 
Bat, ah ! those pleasures, loves, aiid 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here, musr cry here 
At perfidy mgrate 1 



108 burns' poems. 

Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt, unknown ! 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim-declining age. 



WINTER. 



The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The^blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

1 The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,'* 

The joyless winter-day 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join : 

* Dr. Young. 



burns' poems. 109 

The leafless trees my fancy please, 
Their fate resembles mine. 

Thou Poicer Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy Will ! 
Then all I want, (O, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy Thou must deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



-o - 



THE 

COTTER'S SATURDAY N I G H T. 

INSCRIBED TO R. AITKEN, ESQ. 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short but simple annals of the poor. — Gray, 



My lov'd, my honour'd, much-respected friend ! 

jS t o mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise ; 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene : 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, 

What Aitken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, 1 
ween ! 



110 burns' POEMS 

November chill Maws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The shortening winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The blackening train o' craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the muir, his course does hameward 
bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant tvee-things, todlin, stacher through 

To meet their Dad, wi' flitcherin noise and glee. 
His wee-bit ingle, blinkin bonnilie, 

His clean hearthstane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. 

Be.lyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out amang the farmers roun'; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin in her ee, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, 

Or deposite her sair-worn penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi* joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 

The social hours, swift- wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 

The parents, pairtial, ee their hopefu' years : 
Anticipation forward points the view : 



BURKS P0E3IS. Ill 

The Mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, 

Gars auld claes look amidst as weel's the new ; 
Tiie Father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress's command 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk and play; 
* And O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

And mind your duty duly morn and night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lour 
aright.' 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door, 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the concious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak : 
Weel-pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild worthless 
rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben : 

A strappan youth ; he taks the mother's eye : 
blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-taen ; 

The father cracks o' horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy* 

But blate and faithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What maks the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave : 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respectit like th e lave. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare , 



112 BURKS' FOEMS. 

I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 
And sage Experience bids me this declare — 

* If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening 
gale.' 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ? 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; 
The soupe their only Haivkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, 
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it gude ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace. 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care, 
And 'Let us icorship God !' he says, with solemn air. 



burns' poems. 113 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim ; 
Perpaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin beets the heav'n-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd wi' these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they wi' our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage, 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ! 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire : 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped, 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by 
Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King 
The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 

Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,'* 
That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 

* Pope's Windsor Forest. 
17 i 



114 BTJRNS' POEMS. 

There ever bask in uncreated rays 

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 

Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 

While circling time moves round in an eternal spher* 

Compar'd with this, how poor religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's every grace, except the heart. 
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, 
That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
Bat chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preskl 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur spring 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

' An honest man's the noblest work of God ;' 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly roaes, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 

.Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness relin'd ! 

O, Scotia! my dear, my native soil; 

For whom mv warmest wish to Heaven is sent ? 



BURNS POEMS. 115 

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, however crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide, 

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart; 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, 

Kis friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
O never, never Scotia's realm desert ; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot hard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. 



MAX WAS MADE TO MOURS. 

A DIRGE. 

When chill ?s T ovember's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One evening as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou 

Began the reverend sage; 
Doesl:hirst of wealth thy' step consfrSilrL 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 



116 burns' poems. 

Or, haply, prest with care and wi es, 

To soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A. haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And every time has added proofs, 

That man was made to mourn. 

O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all their precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway : 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's laws. 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might • 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, oh! iil-match'd pair! 

Shew man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest, 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ! 



burns' poems 117 



Thro' weary life this lesson learn. 
That man was made to mourn. 



Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heav'n-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man, 

Makes countless thousands inourn. 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
YVho begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spum, 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife, 

And helpless offspring, mourn. 

If I'm yon haughty lordling's slave, 

By nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn ? 

Yet let not this too much my son, 
Disturb thy youthful breast : 

This partial view of human kind 
Is surely not the last. 

The poor, oppressed, honest man, 
Had never, sure, been born, 



118 burns' poems. 

Had there not been some recompense 
To comfort those that mourn. 

O, Death, the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest, 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ! 
But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! 



A PRAYER 

IN THE PROSPECT OP DEATH. 

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear, 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something loudly in my breast 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me 
With passions wild and strong; 

And list'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short. 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do thou, A 11- Good, for such thou art. 

In shades <?f dark* ess hide. 



burls' poems. 119 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But — Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Deliuliteth to forgive. 



STANZAS 

OX THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing: charms ? 
Some drops of joy, with draughts of ill between. 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms I 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, e Forgive my foul offence !' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ! 

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man ; 
Thrii how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran 

O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging ?ea : 
With that controlling power assist e'en me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line : 
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine. 



120 burns' poems. 



VERSES 

LEFT AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE, WHERE THE AUTHOR 
SLEPT ONE NIGHT. 

O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, 

I know thou wilt me hear ; 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my pray'r sincere. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 

Long, long be pleas'd to spare ! 
To bless his little filial flock, 

And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish ! 

The beauteous seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on every hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway f 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 

O'er life's rough ocean driven, 
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 

A family in heaven ! 



burns' poems. 121 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever placed, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns the guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride, 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 

Which by the streamlets grow ; 
The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And, like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath given them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER. 

JNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

O Thou Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 



1-2*2 burns' poems. 

Thy creature here below thee stands, 
All wretched and distrest ; 

Yet sure those ills that wring ray soul 
Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 
To suit some wise design ; 

Then man my soul with firm resolves 
To bear and not repine ! 



TS E FIRST SIX VEESES OF THE NINETIETH 
PSALM. 

O Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling-place. 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command. 

That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 
Which seem to us so vast, 



x \j Jfi M. 5 



123 



Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature man, 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, ' Ye sons of men, 

- Return ye into nought V 

Thou layest them, with all their cares. 

In everlasting sleep : 
As with a flood thou t^k'sr them of? 
With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night cut down it lies 

All wither'! and deeayU 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 

OX TURNING OXE DOWN WITH THE P] 
IX APKIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem ! 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ; 

Wi' speckled breast, 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 

Tne purpling east. 



i24 burns' poems. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield j 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise : 
But now the share up tears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, i 

Sweet flow' ret of the rural shade, 
By love's simplicity betrayed, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent Lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blew hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 



burns' poems. 125 

By human pride or cunning driven, 

To misery's brink, 
Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven y 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom. 



TO RUIN. 

All hail ! inexorable lord 

At whose destruction-breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall, 
Thy cruel, wo-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart, 
Then low'ring, and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thickening, and blackening 
Round my devoted head. 

And thou, grim power, by life abhorr'd, 
While life & pleasure can afford, 

Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer ! 
No more I shrink appall'd afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care ! 



126 burns' forms. 

When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart in throbbings cease, 
Cold mouldering in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 

To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



TO MISS LOGAN, 

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW-YEA H's GIJ 
JANUARY 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driven, 

And you though scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer Heaven. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts, 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex w 7 ith guile and faithless love 

Is charged, perhaps, too true ! 
Bat may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to vou ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

May 1786. 

1 lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 
A something to hae sent you, 



BURNS* roBMS. 127 

Tho' it should serve nae other end 

Than jusl a kind memento ; 
But how the subject-theme may gang - , 

Let time and chance determine; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

^e'll try the world soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, belieVe me, 
Ye'Ii find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Even when your ends attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nouaht 5 

Where every nerve is strained. 

HI no say men are villains a' : 

The real, hardemd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricted : 
Eat, och ! mankind are unco weak, 

And little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake. 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 

Yet they who fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still ih' important end o' life 

They equally may answer : 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare bin;, 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 

Aye free, ail ban' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom-crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 



128 burns' poems. 

Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
Bat keek thro' every other man 

Wf sharpen'd sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove ? 

Tho' naething should divulge it, 
I wave the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing : 
But och? it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling. 

To catch dame fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her; 
And gather gear by every wile, 

That's justify'd by honour ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train-attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 

To haud the wretch in order ; 
But where you feel your honour grip, 

Let that aye be your border : 
In slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere, 
Must sure become the creature ; 

But still the preaching cant forbear, 
And ev'n the rigid feature : 

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 
Be complaisance extended ! 



bl'rxs' poems. 129 

And Atheist's laugh's a poor exchang-- 
For Deity offended ! 

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence nx'd wi 1 Heav'n 

Is sure a noble anchor. 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth .' 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
May Prudence, Fortitude, and Truth, 

Erect your brow ondaunting] 

In ploughman-phrase, " God send you speed" 

Still daily to grow wiser ; 
And may ye better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser. 



ON A SCOTCH BARD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES- 

A' ye wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think. 

Come, mourn wi' me ! 
Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink, 

And owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore : 
Xae mair he'll join the merry roar, 

In social key ; 
17 K 



130 burns' poems. 

For now he's ta'en anither shore, 
And owre the sea. 

The bonny lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him ; 
The widows, wives, and a' may bless him 

Wi' tearfu' ee ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea ! 

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ; 
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drousy bummle 
Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 

Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea ! 

Auld, can tie Kyle may weepers wear, 
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate mony a year, 

That's owre the sea ! 

He saw Misfortune's cauld nor'-icest 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

And owre the sea ! 

To tremble under Fortune's cummockj 
Or sarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
WV his proud independent stomach. 

Could ill agree, 
So row't his hurdies in a hammocks 

And owre the sea. 



burns' poems. 131 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad nae bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
The Muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
And hap him in a cozie biel ; 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fu' o' glee ! 
He wad na wrans;'d the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea. 

Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie ! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonniiie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



TO A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the pudding race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm , 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 



13*2 burns' poems. 

His knife see rustic labour dight," 
And cut you up wi' ready sleight, 
Trenching your gushing t-itrails bright 

Like ony ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich. 

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes, belyve, 

And bent like drums ; 
Then auld gudeman, maist like to rive, 

Bethanhit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, 

On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 

As feckless as a wither'd rash, 

His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash, 

His neive a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 

The trembling earth resounds his tread, 

Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
And legs, and arms, and heads will sued, 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care, 
Jnd dish them out thrir bill o' fare, 



BURNS POEMS. 133 

Anld Scotland wants nae skinkling ware 

That jaups in lugjries ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu 1 pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 



A DEDICATION 

TO GAT IN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, sir, in this narration, 
A fleeehin, tleth'rin dedication, 
To roose you up, and ca' you guid, 
And sprang o' great and noble bluia, 
Because ye're sirnamed like his Grace, 
Perhaps related to the race; 
Then when I'm lir'd— and sae are ye 
Wi' mony a fulsome sulfa' lie, 
Set up a' face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do— maun do, sir, wi' them wiu 
May please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
For'me ! sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thaukit ! I can pleugh ' 
And when 1 downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Lord be thankit ! I can beg ! 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatterin, 
Its just sic poet, and sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him ! 
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him ; 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me), 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just — nae better than he shonki be. 



134 burns' poems. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
Till aft his guidness is abused ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that , 
It's naething but a milder feature 
Of our poor sinfu' corrupt nature : 
Ye'll get the best of moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of d-mn-ti-n ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ; 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a icinnock frae a wh-re, 
But point the rake that taks the door ; 
Be to the poor like ony whunstane, 
And haud their noses to the grunstane ; 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sowid believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs and half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ; 



BUR.NS' POEMS. 135 

Grunt up a solemn lengthen'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're na deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs o' your ain delvin! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever-deepening tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, sir, ye see, 'twas nae daft vapour ; 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them, sir, to You: 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel'. 

Then patronize them \vi' your favour, 

And your petitioner shall ever 

I had amaist said, ever pray, 

But that's a word I need na say : 

For praying I hae little skill o't ; 

I'm baith dead-sweer, and wretched ill o't; 

But Fse repeat each poor man's pray'r, 

That kens or hears about you, sir 



136 burns' poems. 

" May ne'er Misfortune's growlin bvsk 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk. 
May ne'er his gen'rous honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May Kennedy's far-honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen. 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonny lasses round their table. 
And seven braw fellows, stout and aide 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, wi' mutual rays, 
Shine on the ev'ning o' his days • 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing lite nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion; 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest wi' fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him. 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor ! 
But, by a poor man's hopes in Heaven I 
While recollection's power is given, 
li\ in the vale of humble life, 
Tie victim sad of fortune's strife. 



BURNS PGSliSi 

I, thro the tender gashing tear, 
Should recognize ray master dear, 
If friendless, low, we meet thegither, 
Then, sir, your hand — my friend and bra 



TO A LOUSE, 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CKCR-JH, 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly ; 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely. 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt and sinner, 
How dare you set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffei squatrle ! 
There ye creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi 1 ither kindred jumpin cattle. 

In shoals and nations ; 
\Yhare horn nor bane ne'er dure unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the iatt'rills, snug and tight ; 
Xa, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tew'ring height 

O' Miss's bo/viet. 



r38 burns' poems. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out 
As plump and gray as ony grozet ; 

for some rank mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

1 wad na been surprised to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunar di ; fie, 

How dare you do't ! 

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
And set your beauties a' a bread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin ! 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 

Are notice takin! 

O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us ; 
It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion ! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sit legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 



BURNS POEMS. lo { J 

From marking wildly- scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray *d, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 
I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod : 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edixa, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail. 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
I see the sire of love on high. 

And own his work indeed divine. 

There, watching high the least alarms, 
Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar ; 

Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 
And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 

The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 



140 burns' POKMS, 

Have oft withstood assailing war, 
And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes, had their royal home : 
Alas ! how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam 

Tho' rigid laws cries out, 'twas jus? ! 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Even J, who sing in rustic lore, 

Happy my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-following where your fathers led ! 

Edina. ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd fiow'r^, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy hononr'd shade. 



burns' poems. 141 

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

April 1 3 1785. 

While briers and woodbines budding gr;-en, 
And paitricks seraiehing loud at e'en, 
And momin poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown Men' 

I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-een we had a rockin, 

To ca' the crack, and weave our stockin ; 

And there was muckle fun and jokin, 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kind husband bad addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirPd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought described sae weei, 
What ffen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark [" 
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About MuirMrk. 

I r _ pat me fidgin fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier't, 



142 burns' poems. 

Then a' that kent him round declar't 

He had ingine. 
That nane excell'd it, few cam neart, 

It was sae fine. 

That, set him to a pint o' ale, 

And either douce or merry tale, 

Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel, 

Or witty catches, 
Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, and swore an aith, 

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith. 

Or die a cadger pdwnie's death, 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint and gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear 3 our crack. 

But, first and foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude and rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel, 

Does weel enough. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 

But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 

And hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter ? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, ' How can you e'er propose, 
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 
To mak a sang V 



burns' poems. 143 

But, by your leaves, ray learned foes, 
Ye're raaybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns and stools, 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
And syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek. 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 

That's a' the learning I desire ; 

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub and mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, 

Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 

If I can hit it ; 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If I could get it. 

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I believe, are few. 
Yet if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif you want a friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 



144 burns' poems. 

I winna blaw about mysel ; 

As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 

But friends, and folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose me f 
Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae weefaid they whyles lay to me, 

I like the lasses— Gude forgie me ! 

For mony a plack they wheedle frae me, 

At dance or fair ; 
May be some ither thing they gie me ! 

They weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
And hae a swap o' rhymin-ioare 

Wi' ane an ither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter. 

And kirsen him wi' reekin water ; 

Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
And faith w T e'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

Awa, ye selfish warly race, 

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 

Ev'n love and friendship, should give place 

To catch-the-plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 



burns' poems. 145 

Who hold your being on the terms, 

'Each aid the others,' 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers ! 

But, to conclude my lang epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ! 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing, or whistle. 

Your friend and servant. 



TO THE SAME. 

April 21, 1785 

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, 
And pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e'ening's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraifr, 

For his kind latter. 

Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, 
Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing through amang the naigs 

Their ten-hours bite, 
My awkward Muse sair pleads and begs, 

I wadna write. 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzy, 

She's saft at best, and something lazy, 

Quo' she, ' Ye ken, we've been sae bizzie 

This month and mair. 
That, trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, 

And something sair.' 
17 L 



140 burns' poem?. 

Her dowfF excuses pat me mad : 

1 Conscience/ says I, ye thouwless jade 

I'll write, and that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
Sae dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 

' Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to show your parts, 

And thank him kindly ! 

Sae I gat paper in a blink, 

And down gaed stumpie i' the ink : 

Quoth I, i Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it; 
And if ye winna mak it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it ! 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak proof; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard and sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your muirland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how fortune ivaft and warp ; 

She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me mony a jirt and fleg, 
Sin i could striddie owre a rig; 



BURNS 7 POEMS. Ii7 

But by the L — d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg, 

As lang's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimme'r, 

J, Hob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city gent, 

Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffled sark and glancin cane, 
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets aff are ta'en, 

As by he walks. 

1 O, Thou wha gies us each gude gift, 
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift, 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits or lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride.' 

Were this the charter of our state, 
1 On pain o' hell be rich and great, 
Damnation then would be our fate, 
Beyond remead ; 



148 burns' poems. 

But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gate 
We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
1 The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 

And none but he !* 

mandate glorious and divine ! 

The ragged followers o' the nine, 

Poor thoughtless deevils, yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, and squeeze, and growl, 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcass howl, 

The forest's fright, 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties, 

Each passing year. 



BURNS F0E3IS. 149 

TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1785. 

I GAT your letter, winsome Willie : 
Wi' gratefu' heart, I thank you brawlie ; 
Though I maun say't I wad be silly, 

And unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin billie, 

Your flatterin strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor musie ; 
Though in sic phrasin terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but daur a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gdbertfield, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, 

A deathless name 

(O Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry, musty arts ; 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye Enbrugh gentry ! 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lassie gie my heart a screed, 



150 BURNS* POriMS. 

As whyles they're like to be my dead, 
(O sad disease !) 

I kittle up my rustic reed, 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 

She's gotten poets o' her ain, 

Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measur'd style -, 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whar wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

liamsay and famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarroio and Tiveed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 

Naebody sings. 

Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, and Sei?ie, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ; 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

And cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains and fells, 
Her muirs red-brown wi' heather-bells, 
Her banks and braes, her dens and dells, 
Whare glorious Wallace 



burns' poems. 151 

Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southron billies 

At Wallace' name, what Scottish bluod 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft hae our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward red-wet shod, 

Or glorious died. 

O sweer are Coila's haughs and woods, 
When lintwhites chant araang the buds, 
And jinking hares in amorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While through the braes the cushat croods 

Wi' wailfu' cry. 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, 
When winds rave through the naked tree; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

O Nature ! a' thy shews and forms, 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the summer kindly warms 

Wi' life and li^ht, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang dark night ! 

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel he learned to wander, 
Adown some trottin burn's meander, 

And no think lang ; 
O sweet, to stray and pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 



152 burns' poems. 

The vvar'ly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundle, stretch, and strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the bizzy, grumbling hive 

Bum o'er their treasure. 

Fareweel, " my rhyme-composing brither," 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, * 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

While Highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; 
While Muirlan' herds like gude fat braxies ; 
While Terra Firma, on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice, 

In Robert Burns. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 

I had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this new-light,* 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
Atgramma?*, logic, and sic talents, 



* See Note, Pa pre 44, 



burns' poems. 153 

They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallane 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon 

Gaed past their viewin, 
And shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new ane. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 

It ne'er cam in their heads to doubt it, 

Till chiels gat up and wad confute it, 

And ca'd it wrang ; 
And muckle din there was about it, 

Both loud and lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 

And out o' sight, 
And backlins-comin, to the leuk 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; 

The herds and Mr sets were alarm'd ; 

The rev'rend greybeards rav'd and storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words and aiths to clours and nicks, 
And mony a fallow gat his licks, 
Wi' hearty crunt ; 



15 i burns' poems. 

And some, to learn them for their tricks, 
Were hang'd and brunt. 

This game was play'd in mony lands, 
And auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith, the youngsters took the sands 

Wf nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick and stowe, 
Till now amaist on every knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
And some, their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin: 
Their zealous herds are vex'd and sweatin ; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin 

Wi' girnin spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on 

By word and write. 

But shortly they will cowe the loons, 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things thev ca' balloons. 

To tak a flight, 
And stay ae month amang the moons, 

And see them right. 

Gude observation they will gie them ; 

And when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them. 

The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' thera, 

Just i' their pouch, 
And when the new-light billies see them, 
I think they'll crouch. 



burns' poems. 155 

Sae, ye observe, that a' this clatter 

Is naething bat a " moonshine matter;" 

But though dull-prose folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic bruilzie. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKIN, 

EXCLOSIXG SOME POE1TS. 

rough, rude, ready-witted Rankin, 
The wale o' cocks for fan and drinkin ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin 

Your dreams* and tricks 
Will send you, Korah-iike, a-sinkin. 

Straught to aald Nick's. 

Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants, 
And in your wicked, drucken rants, 
Ye mak a deevil o' the saunts, 

And fill them fu' ; 
And then their failings, flaws, and wants, 

Are a' seen through. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 

That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 

Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear il, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives'i aff their back. 



* A certain humorous dream of his was then making 
noise in the country-side. 



156 burns' poems. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're scaithing, 
It's just the blue-gown badge and clai thing 
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen, 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyrain» ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for and mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang ;* ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care, 

And no neglect. 



Though faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, 

And danced my fill ; 
I'd better gane and sair't the king, 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 

I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 

And brought a patrick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen. 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 

I straikit it a wee for sport, 

Ne'er think in they would fash me for't ; 

But deil-ma-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher- court 

The hale affair. 



A song he had promised the Author. 



burns' poems. 157 

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

And pay't the fee. 

But, my gun, o' guns the wale, 
And by my pouther and my hail, 
And by my hen, and by her tail, 

I vow and swear, 
The game shall pay, o'er muir and d.ile, 

For this, neist year. 

As soon's the cockin-time is by, 
And the wee pouts begin to cry, 
L — d, I'se hae sportin by and by, 

For my gowd guinea, 
Though I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame, 

Scarce through the feathers; 
And baith a yellow George to claim, 

And thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ! 
But pennyworths again are fair, 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected sir, 

Your most obedient. 



158 burns' poems, 

written in 
FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON NITHSIDE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
'Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is hut a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love, with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair : 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits would'st thou scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold. 
While cheerful peace, with linnet-song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose : 



BURNS POEMS. 

As life itself becomes disease, 

Seek the chimney-nook of ease, 

There ruminate with sober thought, 

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought 

And teach the sportive younkers round, 

Saws of experience, sage and sound, 

Say, man's true, genuine, estimate, 

The grand criterion of his fate, 

Is not, Art thou high or low ? 

Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 

Did many talents gild thy span ! 

Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 

Tell them, and press it on their mind, 

As thou thyself must shortly find, 

The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 

To virtue or to vice is giv'n, 

Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 

There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 

That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 

Lead to the wretched, vile and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
.Night, where dawn shall never break, 
Till future life, future no more, 
Till light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsmen of Nith-side. 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. — OP 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation mark ! 



160 burns' poems 

Who in widow-weeds, appears, 
Laden with unhonour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ? 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face- 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
Pity's flood there never rose. 
See those hands ne'er stretch'd to save, 
Hands that took — but never gave. 
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 
She goes, but- not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTEOPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends ? 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies: 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hellward plies. 



And are they of no more avail, 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ; 
In other worlds can Mammon fail, 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 
O, bitter mockery of the pompous oxer, 

While down the wretched vital part is driven ? 
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, 

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven. 



burns' poems. 161 



ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOUR; 
IMMEDIATELY FliOM ALMIGHTY GOD. 



But now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthews course was bright; 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, heav'nly light. 



O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The meikle deevil wi J a woodie 
Hauri thee name to his black smiddie, 

O'r lmrcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdla 

Wi' thy auld sides! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourii 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your crestin cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunt of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers ; 
Come join ye, Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, 

Wi 1 tcdiin din, 
17 M 



1G2 burns' poems. 

Or foaming Strang-, wi* hasty sten9, 
Frae linn to linn. 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee; 
Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see ! 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first of flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at his head, 

At e'en, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' the rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling through a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

Tie's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots and speckled teals ; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi* airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'rin? craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae* our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 



burns' poems. 103 

Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree or Eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow ; r, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

O, rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of wo ; 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou simmer, while each corny spear 
§ Shoots up its head, 

Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 
For him that's dead ! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air, 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ! the man ! the brother! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 



164 burns' poems. 

And hast thou crost that unknown river, 
Life's dreary bound ! 

Like thee, where shall I find another, 
The world around ! 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
in a* the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! my story's brief, 
And truth I shall relate, man ; 

I tell nae common tale o' grief, 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 
Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast, 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sod^er art, 
That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart, 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man, 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca', 
Wad life itself resign man -, 



burns' poems. I6o 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', 
Fur Matthew was a kin' man ! 

If thou art staunch without a stain. 

Like the unchanging blue, man ; 
This was a kinsman o' thy a in, 

For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er gude wine did fear, man ; 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Matthew* was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot, 
To blame poor Matthew dare, man, 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 
For Matthew was a rare roan. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

ON THE APPROACH OP SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the w r eary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 



166 burns' poems. 

The mavis wild, wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest ; 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae \ 
The hawthorn's budding in the gUfi, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweet amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a* Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly rose I in the morn, 

As blithe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman, 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet shall whet a sword 

That through thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping bloodin woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ! 
Nor the balm that draps on wounds of wo 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ; 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 



burns' poems. 167 

And when thou meet'st thy mother's fiiend, 
Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ; 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flowers that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 

OF FIN Til A. 

La/te crippled of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to bee: ; 
Dull, listless, teased, dejected and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest;) 
Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail? 
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade. 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the ground: 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'tl wasp, victorious, guards his cell. 
Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug. 



168 burns' poems. 

Ev'n silly woraan has her warlike arts, 

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the opening dun ; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 
No nerves olfactr'y, Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich dulness, comfortable fur. 
In naked feeling, and in aching. pride, 
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side ; 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd, I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes — 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must weai 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in th' unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on thro' life, 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage. 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 



burns' poems. Mid 

By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 



dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm-shelter a haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder "some folks" do not starve. 
The grave saL r e hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dcg. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude, that "fools are fortune's care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign- post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaunted hell. 

1 dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; 
(Fled, like the sun eclip^d at noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Flntra, my other stay, Ions: bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path, 
Give energy to life, and sooth his latest breath 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! 



170 burns' poems. 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF 
GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a craigy steep a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down wi' years ; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' the caves 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

"Ye scatter'd birds, that faintly sing 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye w r oods, that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and ee; 
But nought in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

"lama bending, aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hold of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 



burns' poems. 171 

But I maun lie before the storm, 
And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men. 

Alike unknowing and unknown; 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last, (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay; 
The flower amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay ; 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of wo and wild despair ! 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 

" In poverty's low barren vale, 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round; 
Though oft I turned the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 



172 burns' poems. 

" O ! why lias worth so short a date, 

While villains ripen gray with time? 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of wo ! 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me I" 



LINES 



SENT TO SIR JOHN WH1TEFOORD, 01? WHITEF00RD, BART. 
WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 

Who, save thy ?nind's reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st ; 
To thee this votive offering I impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that darkworld unknown. 



burns' poems. 173 

TAM O' SHANTER, 

A TALE. 



Of Brcuvnyis and of Bogilis full is thisBuke. — Garcin Douglas. 



When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearin late, 
And folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousin at the nappy, 
And getting fou and unco happy, 
We think nae on the lang Scots miles, ' 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gatherinher brows like gatheriu storm, 
Nursin her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, whom ne'er a town supasses 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

Oh, Tarn ! hadst thou but been sac wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka melder wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roarin fou on ; 
That at the L— d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 



174 burns' poems. 

She prophesied that, late or soon, 

Thou wad be found deep drown'd in Doon ; 

Or catch'd wi warlocks in the mirk, 

By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage advises, 
Tiie husband frae the wile despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market-night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi reaming swats that drank divinely, ■ 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 
Tain lo'ed him like a very brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; 
And aye the ale was growin better; 
The landlady and Tain grew gracious, 
\VY favours secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ; 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tarn didna mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himseP amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee harae wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: 
Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, 
O'er a* the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for ever ; 



burns' poems. 175 

Or like the borealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place ; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. — 

Nae man can tether time or tide ! 

The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ! 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 

And sic a night he taks the road in, 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowM : 
That night a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles hauding fast his gude blue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunter's fund the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mimgo's mither hang'd hersel. — 



176 burns' poems. 

Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars through the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.— 



Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi tippenny we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil ! — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd nae deils a bodle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, wow ! Tain saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nidi in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip sleight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light. — 
By which heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet-airns ; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; 



burns' poems. 177 

A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted, 
A knife, a father's thoat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu', 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew : 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Tiinika carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linkit at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, O Tarn! had thae been queans, 
A' plump and strappin' in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie nannen, 
Been snaw- white se'enteen hunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush o' gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping and Hinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu. r brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carriclz shore ! 
17 N 



7 8 BURNS POEMS. 

For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith muckle corn and bear, 
And kept the country side in fear;) 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley ham, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie — 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, (twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flight are far beyond her power ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and fiang, 
(A simple jade she was and Strang,) 
And how Tarn stood, like one bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glow'rd and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" 
And in an instant a' was. dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees biz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crow'd, 
When u Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn! ah, Tarn! thou'lt get thy fairin : 
In hell they'll roast thee like a her r in ? 



burns' poems. 179 

In vain thy Kate awaits thy corain ! 
Kate soon will be a waefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost Meg, 
And win the key stane* of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross, 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale. 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin clausht her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take lie^d : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys ower dear, 
Remember Tarn o' Shanters mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JTJST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye! 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

* It is a well-known fact, that witches, or any evil spi- 
rits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than 
the middle of the next running stream. — It may be proper 
likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when 
he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going 
forward, there is much more hazard in turning buck. 



ISO burns' poems. 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 

The bitter little that of life remains : 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. " 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's* aim, and mourn thy hapless 
fate. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, 
WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer, with a matron grace, 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head. 
And sees, with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 



burns' POKMS. 181 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

So lonof, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won - } 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



ON THE LATE 

CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 

THROUGH SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you. taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it ! 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
And now ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland* 



182 burns' poems. 

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d save's ! colleague 

At some black art. — 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer, 

Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour, 

And you deep-read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight b es. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ' 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade. 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the— Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nic-nackets ; 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin' jackets,* 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg 
The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 

* v ide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons, 



BD11NS 5 POEMS. 183 

The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gullie. 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him, 
And port, O port I shine thou a wee, 
And then ye ; ll see him ! 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chiel, Grose ! 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shame fa' thee. 



TO MISS CRUICKSHAXKS, 

A VERY YOU>~G LADY, 

Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book, presented 
to her by the Author. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 

Blooming in thy early May, 

Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r 

Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 

Never Boreas' hoary "path, 

Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 

Never baleful stellar lights, 

Taint thee with untimely blights ! 

Never, never reptile thief 

Riot on thy virgin leaf! 

Nor even Sol too fiercely view 

Thv bosom blushing still with dew ! 



184 burns' poems. 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And every bird thy requiem sings; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth, 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF 
JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. 

Brother to a Young Lady, a particular Friend 
of the Author's, 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew, 

The morning rose may blow : 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smiled ; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguiled. 

V 

Fate oft tears the bosom cords 

That nature finest strung : 
So Isabella's heart was form'd. 

And so that heart was wrung. 



BURNS I'OEMS. 

Were it in the poet's power, 
Strong as he shares the grief 

That pierces Isabella's heart, 
To give that heart relief. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound he gave : 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow. 

And fear no withering blast ; 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER.* 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know, your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ! 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams 

In flying summer-pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crj stal tide. 

The lightly-jumping glow'rin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 



* "Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedinsly picturesque and 
beautiful; but their effect is much impaired hy the want of 
trees and shrubs. 



Ib6 burns' forms. 

If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes arming, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by, 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Ev'n as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel, 

W T orth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring tree-, 

And bonnie spreading bushes; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir: 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow 3 



BURNS 5 FOE MS. 187 

The robin, pensive autumn cheer, 
In all her locks of yellow : 

This, too, a covert shall insure, 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown o' flow'rs : 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 

From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care ; 
The flowers shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heaven to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mifd-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And ", for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 



188 burns' poems. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social flowing glasses, 
The grace be— " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lassies !" 



ON 

SCARING SOME WATER FOWL 

In Loch-Turit, a icild scene among the Hills of 
Oughtertyre. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow- creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below ; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffv brow, 
Marking you his prey below. 



burns' poems. 1^9 

In his breast no pity dwells, 

Strong necessity compels, 

But man, to whom alone is giv'n 

A ray direct from pitying Heav'n 

Glories in his heart humane — 

And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

Over the Chimney-piece in the parlour of the Inn 
at Kenmure, Taymouth. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covied grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view, — 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides 
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides ; 



190 burns' poems. 

Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'inong the hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on its verdant side ; 
The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste ; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste; 
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village, glittering in the noontide beam— 
****** 

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; 
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — 
****** 

Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, 
And look through Nature with creative five ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds : 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch. 

her scan, 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL. 

Standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch-ness. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods, 

The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; 

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 

Where, thro' a shapeless beach his stream resounds, 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 

As deep-recoiling surges foam below, 

Prone down the rock the w 7 hitening sheet descends, 

And viewless Echo's ear astonish'd, rends. 



burns' poems. 191 

Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless showers, 
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, lowers. 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below, the horrid cauldron boils — 



OX THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

Born under peculiar Circumstances 

of Family Distress. 

Sweet floweret, pledge o' raeikle love, 

And ward o' mony a pray'r, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae, helpless, sweet, and fair. 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the sheltering tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gies the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw, 
Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 

Mav He, the friend of wo and want, 

Who heals life's various stounds, 
Protect and guard the mother plant, 

And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer morn : 
Now freely bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 



192 burns' poems. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unsheath'd by ruffian hand ! 

And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our land. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 
A Brother Poet* 

AULD NEEBOUR, 

Fm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrant frien'ly letter ; 
Tho'I maun say't, I doubt you flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair; 
For my puir, silly rymin' clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares. 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, grey hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit : 
And gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, 

Be haint wha like. 



* This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, published 
Kilmarnock, 1789. 



BURNS' POEMS. 193 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Rivin' the words to gar them clink; 

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, 

WTjads or masons : 
And whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Coalmen' me to the Bardie clan; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhyming' clink, 
The deil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

And while ought's there, 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

And fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, aniaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough and raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie; 
The warF may play you monie a shavie; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Xa, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



17 



194 hurts' poems. 

LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH 
LORD DAER. 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be -forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at drucken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priest3, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've ev'n join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord— stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an earl's son ! 

Up higher yet my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord— lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r, 

And how he star'd and stammer VI, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpin' on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 



I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
An' at his lordship steal't a look 

Like some portentous omen \ 



burns' poe:,is. \9q 

Except good-sense and social glee, 
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care, 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG 
NAMED ECHO. 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng 

Your heavy loss deplore : 
Now half-extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring, screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 



196 BURKS' POEMS. 

INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY 
OF FURGUSSON. 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. 

Born, September 5, tfoo—Died, October 16, 1774. 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust," 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 

When Nature her great masterpiece design'd, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useless many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput nxortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires ; 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave deigns, 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes the Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 



burns' poems. 197 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good ; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half-jest, she try'd one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter ; 
Such as the lightest breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hozarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it- a poet. 
Creature, the oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being: form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd— and there the homage ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each sroan, 
Yet Irequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then left for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham 

Pity the tuneful Muses 9 hapless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on Lire's stormy main! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage provcrb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung boon 
The world were blest did biiss on them depend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend !" 



198 burns' poems. 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 

Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 

Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 

(Instincts a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 

Who make poor will do wait upon I should— 

We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good ? 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 

God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 

But, come, ye who the godlike pleasure know, 

Heaven'3 attribute distinguished — to bestow ! 

Whose arms of love would grasp the human race ; 

Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 

Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 

Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 

Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 

Backward, abash'd, to ask thy friendly aid? 

I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 

I crave thy friendship at thy kind command : 

But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 

Heavens ! should the branded character be mine t 

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows. 

Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 

Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 

Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit! 

Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 

Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 

So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, 

But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 

In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 

They dun benevolence with shameless front; 

Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays, 

They persecute you all your future days ! 

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 

My horny fist assume the plough again ; 

The piebald jacket let me patch once more , 

On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 

Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift ! 

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 



burns' poems. 199 

That plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, \ 

Where, Man and Nature fairer in her sight, f 

My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer/* 

flight.* ) 

FRAGMENT, 

Inscribed to the Bight Hon. J. C. Fox, 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; 
How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, firrt of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky 

hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half 'era ever went quite right ; 
A sorry, poor inisbegot son of the Mu?es, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he looks, 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks : 

* This is our Poet's first epistle to Graham of Fintra. It is 
not equal to the second; but it contains too much of the cha- 
racteristic vigour of its author to be suppressed. A little more 
knowledge of natural history, or of chemistry, was wanted to 
enable him to execute the original conception correeiiy. 



200 burns' poems. 

With his depths and his shallows, his good ai d his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking switch, eats up its 

neighbours : 
Mankind are his show-box— a friend, would you know 

him? 
Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will shew 

him. 
What pity, in rearing; so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly describe; 
Have you found this, or t'other ? there's more in the 

wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
[n the make of that wonderful creature call'd Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
N"or even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 

TO DH. BLACKLOCK. 

ffllisland, 2lst Oct. 1789. 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to ; 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 



burns' POEMS. "201 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel, by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I Hppen'd to the phield in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 

But. aiblins. honest blaster Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on, 
E'en tried the body.* 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queans. I fear, I fear, 

Ye'il now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a^year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket. gle some, dainty damies, 
VTha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies. 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken. 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o ; men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 
They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is, 
I need nae vaunt, 



* Mr. Heron, author of the History of Scotland, and of 
various other works. 



202 burns' poems. 

But I'll sned besoms— thraw saugh woodies, 
Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care .' 
I'm weary sick o't late and air! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than raony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
Wha doe3 the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do amir. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy fireside clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuck ie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gracefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye, 

Robert Burns, 



BURNS' poems. -203 



PROLOGUE, 

Spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, o?i New-Year's- 

Day Evening. 

No song nor dance I bring from von great city 

That queen's it o ! er our taste— the raore's tiie pity ; 

Tho\ by the by e, abro. d why will you roam ? 

Good sense and taste are natives nearer home : 

But not for panegyric I appear, 

I come to wish you all a good new year ! 

Old Father Time deputes me here defore ye, 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 

The sage grave ancient cough 'd, and bade use say, 

" Your one year older thia important day." 

If wiser, too— he hinted some suggestion, 

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ; 

And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink. 

He bade me on you press this one word—" think I" 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush'd with hope and 
spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way : 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him ; 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important— now ! 



204 burns' poems. 

To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho* haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ELEGY 

ON THE LATE MISS BURNET OF MONBODPO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
JN T or envious Death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 

As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm— Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 

And thou, sweet excellence J forsake our earth, 
And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 



burns' poems. 205 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the sphere's; 

Bat, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care : 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree. 
So from it ravish'd. lea\es it bleak and bare. 



THE RIGHTS OF W03IA>\ 

An occasional Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle 
on her Benefit- Night. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things. 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man; 
Amid this mightv fuss, just let me mention, 
The Mights of Woman merit some attention. 

First in the sexes' intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. — 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.— 

Our second Right— but needless here to caution, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum— 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rougb ruie man had naughty ways ; 



306 bu tins' poems. 

Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled • 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit wit nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which ev'n the Rights of Kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own— 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let Majesty your flrst attention summon, 
Ah! ca ira ! the Majesty of Woman ! 



ADDRESS, 

Spoken by Miss Fonteyielle, on her Benefit- Night , 
December 4, 179-5, at the Theatre, Dumfries, 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, tiian ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ; 
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes 
Said, nothing like his works was every printed ; 
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 
" I know your bent— these are no laughing times : 



burns' poems. 20? 

Can you— but, Miss, I own I have ray fears, 
Dissolve in pause— and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence, 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land ?" 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? 
I'll lau^h, that's poz— nay more the world shall know 

it f 

And so your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ! 

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my flx'd belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief : 
I also think— so may I be a bride ! — 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch ! 
Say you'll be merry, tho you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hath strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought— a rope — thy neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf? 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder— that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



208 burns' poems. 

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. 

WITH A PRESENT OE SONGS. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears, 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endebrs, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A ■ 
COPY OF HIS POEMS. 

Presented to a Lady, whom he had often CeIe-> 
orated under the name of Clitoris. 

Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 



burns' poems. '203 

ice, thy gay morn of life o'ereast, 
^hill came the tempest's lower ; 
nd ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer flow'r). 

ace life's gay scenes must charm no more, • 

Still much is left behind ; 

ill nobler wealth hast thou in store, 

The comforts of the mind ! 

ine is the self-approving glow, 
On conscious honour's part ; 
id, dearest gift of Heaven below, 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 

e joys refln'd of sense and taste, 
With every muse to rove : 

d doubly were the poet blest 
These joys could he improve. 



COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS TO 
MR. WILLIAM TYTLER. 

With the Present of the Bard's Picture. 

rEREND defender of beauteous Stuart, 

f Stuart, a name once respected, 

ame, which to love was the mark of a true heart. 

ut now 'tis despised and neglected. 

' something like moisture conglobes in my eye. 
et no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
oor friendless wanderer may well claim a sig'... 
till more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

1 P 



% 210 burns' poems. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My lathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, 
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry ; 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of this epoeha make such a fuss, 



But loyalty truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trinle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 

Your course to the latest is bright. 



THE FOLLOWING POEM 

Was written to a Gentleman loho had sent him a 
Newspaper, and offered to continue it, free 
of expense. 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 
And, faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 



BURNS 7 POEMS. 211 

How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? 

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 

To ken what French mischief was brewin', 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' : 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose oir; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

At ween the Russians and the Turks : 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Would play anither Charles the Twalt ; 

If Denmark, any body spak o'r. : 

Or Poland, wha had now the tak o"t ; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin' : 

How libbet Italy was singin' : 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were say hi' or tukn* aught amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

In Britain's court, kept up the game : 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ; 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was fivin', 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in : 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookir.', 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukiu' : 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd 

Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; 

If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin' still at hizzie's tails, 

Or if he was grown oughJins douser, 

And no a perfect kintra cooser. 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 

And but for you I might despair'd of; 

So gratefu', back your news I send you, 

And pray a' guid things may attend you ! 

Ellislandy Monday Morning, 1790. 



212 burns' poems. 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail, Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! 
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd, 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And, och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 

J Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, Lassie why thy train amang. 
While loud, the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage : 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame : 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches : 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters. 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share 

A rival place ? 



BURNS POEMS. 213 

Yes! there is ane ; a Scottish callan — 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ! 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantalian, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines. 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines : 

Xae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
'While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Wnere bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazellv shaws and braes, 

Wi 5 hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nac snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



SKETCH.— NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DUXLOP. 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 



214 burns' poems. 

Adjust the unirnpair'd machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

Tlie absent lover, minor heir, 
In vain assail him with their prayer ; 
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 
The happy tenants share his rounds; 
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow— 
— That grandchild's cap will do to-niorrow- 
And join with me in moralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 
First, what did yesternight deliver? 
" Another year is gone for ever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion? 
"The passing moment's all we rest on.' 5 
Rest on !— for what ? what do we here? 
Or why regard the passing year? 
Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore. 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may — a few years must — 
Rppose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss? 
Yes— all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of Nature loudly cries, 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
Hang matters of eternal weight; 
Tnat future life in worlds unknown, 
Must take its hue from this alone ; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as misery's woeful night, — 
Since, then, my honour'd first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends, 



BL'IIJS'S POEMS. 

Let us th' important now employ, 
And live as those who never die, 
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, 
A si^ht, pale envy to convulse,) 
Others now claim your chief regard ; 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE ON THE LATE MR. W. 
SMELLIE, 

Author of the Philosophy of Natural History, and 
Member of the Antiquarian and Royal Societies 
of Edinburgh. 

To Crochallan came 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night ; 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd ; 
A head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd ; 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



POETICAL INSCRIPTION 

For an Alter to Independence, at Kerroughtry, 
the Seat of Mr. Heron ; written in Summer, 
1795, 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd : 

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, ) 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, > 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. j 



316 burns' poems. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

Sent by the Surveyor of Taxes , to each Farmer, 
ordering him to send a Signed List of his 
Horses, Servants, Wheel- Carriages, §•<?. and 
whether he teas a Married Man or a' Bache- 
lor, and zohat Children they had. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle ; 
My hand-a-fore, a guid auld has-been, 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been ; 
My han ahin's a weel gaun filly, 
Wha af c has borne me hame frae Killie, 
And your auld borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
M.y fur-a-hin a guid grey beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was trae'd : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie, 
Forbye a cowte, of cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An* he be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel-carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new ; 
An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
\nd my auld mither brunt the trundle. 



burns' poems. 217 

For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 
A gadsrnan ane, a thresher t'other, 
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely ; 
And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,) 
He'll screed you off effectual calling 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servant station, 

Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation ! 

I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 

And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 

For weans I'm mair than weel contented, 

Heaven sent me ane more than I wanted ; 

My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, ) 

She stares the daddie in the face, 

Enough of ought ye like but grace. _) 

But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 

I've said enough for her already, 

And if ye tax her or her mither, 

By the L— d ye'se get them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm taking ; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle : 
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit ! 
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 
This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscrip.il luiic 

Robert Btjkns. 



218 burns' poems. 

TO A YOUNG LADY, 

MISS JESSY , DUMFRIES, 

With Books wliich the Bard presented her. 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
That fate may in her fairest page 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name ; 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 



EXTEMPORE, 

7"o Mr. S**e, on refusing to Dine ivith him, after 
having ~been promised the first of Company, 
and the first of Cookery ; 1 1th December, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cook'ry the first in the nation ; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. S**E, WITH A PRESENT OF 
DOZEN OF PORTER. 

O, had the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit ! 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S**e were fit. 



burns' poems. 219 



POEM. 

Addressed to Mr. Mitchell, Collector of Excise, 

Dumfries, 1796. 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 
Wi' a' his witches 

Are at it, skelpin' ! jig and reel, 
In my poor pouches. 

I modestly fa' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it, 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would he kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin' 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 

POSTCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't, 



220 burns' poems. 

My hale and weel I'll take a care o't 
A tentier way : 

Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, 
For ance and aye. 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE 
HAD OFFENDED. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray ;) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was th' insensate frienzied part, 
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ? 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE. 

Addressed to Colonel de Peyster, Dumfries, 179(J 

My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 
Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ; 
And fortune favour worth and merit 
As thev deserve : 



burns' poems. 221 

(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 
Syne, wha wad starve ?) 

Darae Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her, 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still. 
Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches like baudrans b.y a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail yell ne'er cast saut on — 

He's aff like fire. 

Ah! Nick! ah Nick .' it is na fair, 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft : 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie aft bizzes by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 



2*22 burns' poems. 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang : 
And thro' my lugs git-s mony a twang, 

WT gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or a sue freezes, 
Rheumatic's gnaw, or cholic squeezes, 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, — 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle! 
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Th our bear's t the gree. 



BURNS ; VOEMS. 2'23 

Where'er that place be priests ca' bell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plasues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'stthe bell 

Amang them a.' ! 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Tiil daft mankind aft dance a reel, 

In sore a shoe-thick : — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Toothe-ache. 



HOLY WILLIES PRAYER. 

Thou, wha in the heav'ns dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysei', 

Sends ane to heav'n and ten to hell, 
A' for thy glory, 

And no for ony gruid or ill 

They've done afore thee. 

1 bless and praise thy matchless mi^'ht, 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burning and a shin in' light, 
To a' this place, 

What w r as I, or my generation, 
That I should get such exaltation? 
I, wha deserve sic just damnation, 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creatiou, 

Thro' Adam's cause. 



224 burns' poems. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell, 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In burning lake, 
Where damned Devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample, 

To show thy grace is great and ample ; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an' example 

To a' thy flock. 

O L — d thou kens what zeal I bear, 
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear. 
And singing there, and dancin here, 

Wi' great an' sma', 
For I am keepit by thy fear, 

Free frae them a\ 

But yet O L — d ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust, 
And sometimes too, wi' wardly trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Denl'd in sin. 



Besides, I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow ; 

But L— d, that Friday I was fou ; 

When I came near her, 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. 

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn, 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 



burns' poems. 225 

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 
'Cause he's sae gifted ; 

If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, 
Until thou lift it. 

L — d bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race ; 
But G-d confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace, 

An' public shame. 

L— d, mind G — n H n's deserts, 

He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, 
He has sae monie takin arts, 

Wi' grit and sma', 
Frae G— d's ain priest the people's hearts 

He steals awa'. 

And when we chasten'd him therefore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore 
As set the warld all in a roar 

O' laugh in at us; 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 

Kail an' potatoes. 

L — d, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r, 

Against that presbytery o' Ayr ; 

Thy strong right hand, L — d make it bare, 

Upo' their heads, 
L — d, weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

O L— d, my G-d, that glib-tongu'd A a, 

My vera heart an' saul are quakin, 

To think how we stood sweatin', shaking 

And p — d wi' dread, 
17 Q 



1226 burns' POEMfc. 

While he wi' hangin' lip and snakin', 
Held up his head. 

L— d, in the day of vengeance try him, 
L — d, visit them wha did employ him, 
An* pass not in thy merey by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r; 
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane, 
And a' the glory shall be thine. 

"Amen* amen. 



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 

Here Holy Willie's sair-worn clay 

Takes up its last abode; 
His saul has ta'en some other way, 

I fear, the left-hand road. 

Stop! there he is as sure's a gun, 

Poor silly body, see him ; 
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun r 

Observe wha's standin' wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see, 
Has got him there before ye ; 

But baud your nine-tail cat a wee, 
Till ance you've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore, 

For pity ye hae nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er, 

And mercy's day is gaen, 



BURKS' POEMS. 227 

But hear me, Sir, Deil as ye are, 

Look something to your credit 
A coof like him wad stain your name, 

If it were kent ve did it. 



THE KIRK'S ALARM* 



Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Ksos, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience : 

There's a heretic blast been blawn in the wast; 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac.t Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, 

To strike evil-doers wi 3 terror; 
To join faith and sense upon any pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, Town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, 

To meddle wi 5 mischief a-brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Eobi is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild,§ D'rymple mild, tho' your heart*! 
like a child," 

And your life like the new-driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld satan must have ye, 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa, 

Rumble John,] Rumble John, mount the steps wi* a 
groan, 
Cry the book is with heresy eramm'd ; 

* This Poem was written a short time after th€ publica- 
tion of Mr. M'Gill's Essavs. 
|Dr M*GilL ;R— tA-k-n. i Mr. D e. || Mr. R-ss-iL 



228 burns' poems. 

Then lug out the ladle, deal brimstone like adle, 
And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James,* Simper James, leave the fair Killie 
dames, 

There's a holier chase in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney, t Singet Sawney, are ye huirding the 
penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ; 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul Thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld,t Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, 

A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, 

And gif ye canna bite ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster,^ Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do 
muster, 

The corps is so nice of recruits : 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamy Goose,|| Jamy Goose, ye hae made but toom 
roose, 

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L— d's haly ark, 

He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie,^" Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, 
Wi' your Liberty's Chain and your wit; 

* Mr. M C K— y. t Mr. M v. } Mr. A— d. 

§ Mr. G 1 )f Ochiltree. || Mr. Y g of Cummock. 

II Mr. P— b— s of Ayr. 



BURNS* POEMS. 229 

O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid astride, 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. 

Andro Gouk,* Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book } 
And the book not the waur, let me tell ye ! 

Ye are rich, and look big, bufelay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie.f Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? what 
mean ye ? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may hae some pretence to bavins and sense, 

W? people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine side,} Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock pride, 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow, 

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 

Muirland Jock,^ Muirland Jock, when the L— d 
makes a rock 

To crush Common Sense for her sins, 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy W111JI Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull, 
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 

The timraer is scant, when ye're ta'e'n for a saunt, 
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your spir'tual guns, 

Ammunition ye never can need : 
Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough, 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 



* Dr. A. M 11. t Mr, S n Y— g of Bsrr. 

X Mr. S h of Galston. § Mr, S— d. [I An Elder ii, M— 



230 BURNS' pokms. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping 
turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are. 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, 

KILMARNOCK, 

On the Publication of his Essays. 

O Goudie ! terror of the Whigs, 
Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs •, 
Sour bigotry, on her last legs, . 

Girnin' looks back, 
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
Fly ! bring Black- Jock, her state physician, 

To see her w-ter ; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple 
But now she's got an unco ripple, 
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, 

Nigh unto death ; 
See, how she fetches at the thrapple, 

And gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 
Gaen in a galloping consumption, 
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, 
Will ever mend h^r, 



burns' poems. 231 

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption 
Death soon will end her. ' 

Tis you and Taylor* are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the Lord's ain fouk gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
An' twa red peats wad send relief, 

And end the quarrel. 



THE TWA HERDS.t 

O a' ye pious, godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best Herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast, 
These five-and-twenty simmers past, 

Oh ! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter, black out-cast 

Atween themsel. 

O, M y, man, and wordy R 11, 

Plow could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how New-Light Herds will whistle, 
And think it fine ! 



* Dr. Taylor, of Norwich. 
t This piece was among the first of our Author's produc 
tions which he submitted to the public; and was occasioned 
by a dispute between two Clergymen, near Kilmarnock. 



232 burns' poems. 

The L — d's cause ne'er got sic a twistle, 
Sin' I ha'e min'. 

O, Sirs ! whae'er would ha'e expeckit, 
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 
Ye wha were ne'er by laird respeckit ! 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, ay clear, they drank, 

O sic a feast ! 

Tne thummart wil'-cat, brock, and to i, 
Weel-kenn'd his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What Herd like R 11 tell'd his tale, 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 

Or nobly fling the gospel club, 

And New- Light Herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub ; 

Or heave them in. 



burns' poems. 233 

Sic twa ! — Oh ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like villain, hj pocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While New-Light Herds, wi' laughin' spite 

Say neither's liein' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D n deep, and P s shaul, 

But chiefly thou, apostle A- d, 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
There's scarce a new Herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, 

I winna name ; 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

D e has been lang our fae, 

M'G 11 has wrought us meikle wae, 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Q e, 

And baith the S s 

That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief, 

We thought ay death would bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef ; 

I meikle dread him. 

And monie a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 



234 burns' poems. 

Forbye turn-coats among oursel, 

There S— h for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, 

An' that ye'll tin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills, 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To co we the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themsels, 

To choose their Herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody dance, 
And that fell cur ca'd Commen Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and D'rympie's eloquence 

M'G IPs close nervous excellence, 

M' Q — 's pathetic, manly sense, 

And guid M'M h 

Wi' S — h, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack aff. 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH-HONOURED FRTEND 
MRS DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

Sensibility, how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well ! 



burns' poems. 235 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming: in the sunny ray ; 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood- lark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys ; 
Hapless'bird ! a prey the surest, 

To each pirate of the skits. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 

Finer feelings can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



SONNET, 

Written on the 26th of January, 1793, the Birth' 
day of the Author, on hearing a Thrush sing in 
a Morning Walk. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough ; 

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain ; 

See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 
At thy Wythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, 
Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 



236 burns' poems. 

Yet come thou child of poverty and care ; 
The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee 
I'll share. 



TO THE 

GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE, 

IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH SHE HAD 
SENT THE AUTHOR. 

GUIDWIFE, 

I mind it weel in early date, 

When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

And first could thresh the barn • 
Or haud a yokin at the pieugh ; 
An' tho' ibrfoughten sair enough, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first amfin^ the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing and clearing 
The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r— 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast — 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thissle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 

And spar'd the symbol dear \ 



burns' poems. 2-J7 

No nation, no station, 

My envy ne'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 

I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle. 
Her witchin smile, her pauky e'en 
That gart my heart-strings tingle t 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared ay to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter-days, 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mmdfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you nae bred to barn or byre, 
Wlia sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 
Thanks to vou for vour line : 



233 burns' poei>is. 

The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

Twad please me to the Nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my imp, 

Douce hinging o'er my curple. 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple, 
Fareweel then, lang heal then, 

An' plenty be your fa' : 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca\ 
March, 1787. R. BURNS. 



TO J. RANKEN, 

On his Writing to the Author that a Gu I was 
with child by him. 

I am a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, altho' not a* ; 

Some people tell me gin I fa', 

Ae way or it her, 
The breaking of a point, tho' sma', 

Breaks a thegither. 

I hae been in fort ance or twice, 
And winna say, o'er far for thrice, 
Yet never met with that surprise 

That broke ray rest, 
But now a rumour's like to rise, 

A whaup's i' the nest. 



burns' FOE IMS. 239 



ADDRESS 

TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILI). 

Thou's welcome wean, mischanter fa' me, 
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, 
Shall ever danton me, or awe me," 

My sweet wee lady, 
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca'me 

Tit-ta or daddy. 

Wee image of my bonny Betty, 
I fatherly will kiss an' daut thee, 
As dear an' near my heart I set thee, 

Wi' as gude will 
As a' the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out o' hell. 

What tho' they ca' me fornicator : 
And tease my name in kintry -clatter : 
The mair they tauk I'm kent the better, 

E'en let them clash ; 
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter 

To gie ane fash. 

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint, 

My funny toil is now a' tint, 

Sin' thou came to the warl' asklent, 

Which fools may scoff at ; 
In my last plack thy part's be in't — 

The better half o't. 

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, 
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee, 
A lovin father I'll be to thee, 

If thou be spar'd ; 



240 BURNS' POEMS. 

Thro' a* the childish years I'll e'e thee, 
An' think' t weel war'd. 

Gude grant that thou may ay inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, 
And thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, 

Without his failins, 
'Twill please me mair to hear an' see't, 

Than stocket mailens. 



TO A TAILOR, 

In Answer to an Epistle which he had sent the 
Author. 

What ails ye now, ye lousie b— h, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch? 
Losh, man ! hae mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I did nae suffer half sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 



What tho' at times when I grow crouse, 
I gie their waraes a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant sae ? 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick the louse, 

An' jag the rlae. 

King David, o' poetic brief, 

Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief 

As fill'd his after life wi' grief 

An' bloody rants, 
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

O' lang syne saunts. 



burns' poems. 241 

And maybe, Tarn, for a' my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts 

An unco slip yet^ 
An' snugly git amang the saunts, 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs the Session says I maun 

Gae fa' upo' anither plan, 

Then garren lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre hody, 
And sairly thole their mither's ban 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How I did with the Session sort — 
Auld Clinkum at the inner port 

Cry'd three times u Robin ! 
Come hither lad. an' answer fort, 

Ye're blain'd for jobbin." 

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, 
An' snoov'd awa ? before the Session — 
I made an open, fair confession, 

I scorn'd to lie; 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, 

Fell foul o' me. 

A fornicator loun he call'd me, 

An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me ; 

I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

' ; But what the matter/' 
Quo' I, " I fear unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 

" Geld you,'" quo' he, u and whatfore no, 
If that your right hand, leg, or toe, 
17 R 



242 BURNS' POEMS. 

Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, 
You shou'd remember 

To cut it aff, an' whatfore no 

Your dearest member P 

" Na, na," quo' I, " I'm no for that, 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my faut, 

A hearty fie wit, 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't ! 

Tho'I should rue it. 

" Or gin ye like to end the bother, 
To please us a', I've just ae ither, 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather, 

What'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither, 

An' let her guide it." 

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, 
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw, 
I said " Guid night," and cam awa', 

An' left the Session \ 
I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



LAMENT 

OF A MOTHER FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 



BURNS POEMS. 

By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of ail iny hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the brake 
Bewails her ravislvd young : 

So I for my lost darling's sake, 
Lament the live-day long. 

Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 
Now, fond I bare my breast, 

0, do thou kindly lay me low 
With him I love, at rest ■ 



SONNET, 

ON THE DEATH OF "ROBERT KIDDEL, E;-Q. Q£ 
GLEN RIDDEL, APRIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood— no more ! 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul : 
Thou young-ey'd Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 

More welcome were tome grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes ? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend? 

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where 
Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe I 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier : 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer 

Is in Ilia " narrow house" for ever darkiv low. 



244 burns' POE^is. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet ; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



VERSES 

ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave ; 

Th* inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train* ; 

Or mus'd where limpid streams, once'hallow'd wellf, 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fanet ; 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks. 
The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky ; 

Tiie groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs discios'd a stately form, 

In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 



* The King's Park, at Holvrood House. 
t St. Anthony's Well. ; Sf. Anthony's Chapel. 



burns' poems. 245 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 
Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 

That like a dreadful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world : — 

" My patriot Son fills an untimely grave !" 
With accents wild, and lifted arms she cried — 

" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch 'd to save, 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride ! 

({ A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 

And drooping hearts surround their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh, 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire: 
I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ; 

But, ah ! our hope is born but to expire ! 
Relentless fate has laid this guardian low. 

" My patriot falls, but shall he. lie unsung. 

While empty greatness "saves a worthless name I 

No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

" And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtue last, 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs!"— 
She said, and Vanish'd with the sweeping blast* 






LETTER, 

TO J S T T, GL-XC— R. 

Auld comrade dear and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Gl — nc — r ? 
How do you this blae eastlin wind. 
That's like to blaw a body blind 1 



246 burns' poems. 

For me my faculties are frozen, 
My dearest member nearly dozen'd : 
I've sent you here by Johnnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosphers to glimpse on ; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling. 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing, 
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd 
An' in the depths of science mir'd, 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel ; 
But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly, 
Peruse them and return them quickly ! 
For now I'm grown sae cursed douce, 
I pray and ponder butt the house, 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roascin, 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and 3oston ; 
Till by an' by, if I haud on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel groan : 
Already I begin to try it, 
To cast my een up like a pyet, 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore : 
Sae shortly you shalf see me nright, 
A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honestinen : 
When bending down with auld grey hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 
May he who made him still support him. 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him. 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear. 

My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie, 
The manly tar, my mason Billie, 



burns' poems. -247 

An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 

If he's a parent, lass or boy, 

May he be dad, an' Meg the mither, 

Just five-an'-forty years thegither ! 

An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, 

I'm tauld he offers very fairly. 

An' L— d remember singing Sannock, 

WT hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock. 

An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy, 

Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 

An' her kind stars hae airted^till her 

A guid chiel wi 5 a pickle siller. 

My kindest, best respects I sen' it, 

To* cousin Kate an' sister Janet ; 

Tell them frae me, we chiels be cautious, 

For, faith, they'll aiblins fin ; them fashions : 

To grant a heart is fairly civil, 

But to grant a maidenhead's the devil ! 

An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel, 

May guardian angels tak a spell, 

An' steer you seven miles south o' hell ; 

But first, before you see heav'n's glory, 

May ye get monie a merry story, 

Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, 

An' ay enough o' needfu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' yea, 
For my sake this I beg it o' you, 
Assist poor Sirnson a' ye can, 
Ye '11 fin' him just an honest man : 
Sae I conclude an' quat ray chanter. 
Your's saint or sinner, 

Rob the Ranter. 



248 BURNS' POEMS. 



ON A YOUNG LADY, 

Residing on the Banks of the small River Devon, 
in Clackmannanshire , but whose infant years 
were spent in Ayrshire. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Dev.on, 
With green-spreading bushes, and flow'rs bloom- 
ing fair : 

But the bonniest flow'r on the banks of the Devon, 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushinsr flower, 
In the gay, rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening eacli leaf to renew. 

spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 
And England triumphant display her proud rose ; 

A fairer than either adorns the green vallies 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 



VERSES 

Written on the Blank Leaf of a Copy of his 
Poems, Presented to an old Sweetheart, tken 
Manned. 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remeraberd dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 



BURNS* FOEMS. 219 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 
Friendship ! — 'tis all cold duty now allows : — 

And when you read the simple, artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, 

Who distant burns in flaming, torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



EXTEMPORE, 

Written in Answer to a Card from an intimate of 
Burns, inviting him to spend an hour at a 
Tavern, 

The King's most humble servant I, 

Can scarcely spare a minute; 
But I'll be wi' you by and bye, 

Or else the devil's in it. 



EXTEMPORE. 

Written in a Lady's Pocket- Book. 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, 
Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things that were. 



LINES 

ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 

Oh! had each Scot of ancient times, 
Been., Jean y Scott, us thou art, 
The bravest heart on English ground, 
Had yielded like a coward. 



200 burns' poems. 

EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, 

ETC. ETC. 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER, 

Here souter Will in death does sleep, 

To h-U, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep. 

He'll haud it weel thegither. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes ; 

O Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin , b-tch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



ON W r EE JOHNNY. 

HIC JACKET WEE JOHNNY. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know, 
That Death has murder'd Johnny ! 

And here his body lies fu' low- 

For saul he ne'er had onv. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
Draw near with pious reverence and attend! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
The tender father, and the generous friend ; 



burns' poems. 2ol 

The pitying heart that felt for human wo ! 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ! 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe, 

" For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."* 



FOR ROBERT AIKEN, Esq. 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name ! 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps, 
Whom canting wretches blam'd ; 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be savd or d d ! 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snooi. 

Let him draw near, 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a Bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng, 

O pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

* Goldsmith. 



•2.V2 burns' poems. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave, 
Here pause— and thro' the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below 

Was quick to learn, and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend— whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole 

In low pursuit, 
Know, prudent, cautious, self control, 

Is wisdom's root. 



ON JOHN DOVE, 

INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE. 

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon, 
What was his religion ? 

Whae'er desires to ken, 
To some other warP 
Maun follow the carl. 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane ! 

Strong ale was ablution — 
Small beer persecution, 

A dram was memento mori; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the joy of his soul, 

And pore was celestial glory. 



burns' poems. 253 



ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest 
As e'er God with his image blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth ; 
Few hearts like his, with virtue wann'd, 
Few hearts with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 

Lament him Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye ; 
For had he staid whole w r eeks awa. 

Your wives they ne'r had miss'd ye. 
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press 

To school in bands thegither, 
O tread ye lightly on this grass, — 

Perhaps he was your father. 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife! 
Who has no will, but by her high permission ; 
Who has not sixpence, but in her possession : 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell ! 
Where such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h. 



2-34 burns' poems. 



THE HIGHLAND WELCOME. 

Composed and Repeated by Burns, to the Master 
of the House, on taking leave at a place in 
the Highlands, where he had been hospitably 
entertained. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come ; 
In heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But, whether granted or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content ! 

Amen. 



ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE. 

The devil got notice that Grose was a dying, 

So whip ! at the summons, old Satan came Hying; 

But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay 

moaning, 
And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, 
Astonish'd ! confounded ! cry'd Satan, " By G-d ! 
I'll want 'im, ere I take such a damnable load ! 7 ' 



EUHIsS' POEMS. 255 

SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A Cantata. 

RECIT ATI vo. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird. 
Or, wavering, like the bauckie* bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite. 

In hoary cranreugh drest ; 
Ae night, at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
WV quaffing and laughing, 

The} 7 ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat. weel braced wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi 5 usquebae and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger ; 
And aye he gies the touzie drab 

The tither skelpin kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab, 

Just like an aumos dish : 

* The old Scottish name for a bat. 



256 burns' poems. 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, 
Just like a cadger's whup, 

Then staggering, and swaggering, 
He roar'd this ditty up — 



Tune— " Soldier's Joy" 

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his 

last, 
When the bloody dye was cast on the heights of 

Abram ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game was 

play'd, 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, foe. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c 

And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and 

And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my 

callet, 
As when I used in scarlet to follow the drum, 
Lai de daudle, &c. 



BURNS POEMS. O57 

What tho' with hoary locks I must stand the winter 

shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home ; 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle &c. 

RECITATITO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus' roar ; 
While frighted rattons backward leak, 

And seek the benmost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out encore! 
But up arose the martial chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune— " Soldier Laddie." 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ! 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my dad die, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

Bat the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church ; 
He ventur'd the soul, and risked the body, 
Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
17 s 



2- r »8 burls' poems. 

Full soon I grew sick of ray sanctified sot, 
Tue regiment at large for a husband I got; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

But the peace it reduced me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair, 
His rags regimental they fluttered sae gaudy, 
My heart it rejoiced at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

And now I have lived — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands 1 can hold the glass 

steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk, 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na wha the chorus took, 

Between themselves they were sae bizzy ; 
At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy, 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then turn'd and laid a smack on Grizzy, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 



Tune— " Auld Sir Symon" 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 

fle's there but 'prentice I trow, 
But I am a fool by profession. 



burn's' poems. 259 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 

And I held awa to the school ; 
I fear I ray talent misteuk ; 

But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I wad venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the hauf o' my craft ; 
But what could ye other expect 

Of ane that's avowedly daft? 

I ance was tied up like a stirk, 

For civilly swearing and quaffing; 
I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, 

For towzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles fort sport, 

Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 
There's even, I'm tauld, i' the court, 

A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 

Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 
He rails at our mountebank squad ; 

It's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 

For faith I'm confoundedly dry, 
The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 

Guid L — d, is far dafter than I. 

RECITATITO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling 
For monie a pursie she had hook'd, 
And had in mony a well been duck'd ; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 



260 burns' poe^is. 

Wi' sighs and sabs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 

AIR. 

Tune—" O, art you icere dead, Gudeman* 

A Highland lad ray love was born, 
The Lawland laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing-, hey, my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for ray John Highlandman. 

Wi' his phiiibeg and tartan plaid, 
And gude claymore down by his side, . 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman, 

Sing, hey, kc. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And lived like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lalland face he feared nane, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

They banish 'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

But oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast, 



burns' poems. *26I 

My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Higiilaxidmao. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

And now a widow I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

REGIT ATI VO. 

A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin limb and gaucy middle 

(He reach 'd nae higher) 
Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward ee, 
He croon'd his gamut, ane, twa, three, 
Then, in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set at?, wi' Alligretto dee, 

His giga solo. 

AIR. 

Tune—" IVliistle o'er the Lave o'tS 

•Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 



I am a fiddler to my trade. 

And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 



262 burns' poehs. 

The sweetest still to wife and maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there. 
And O ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 

We'll bouse about, till daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke, 
And sun oursels about the dyke, 
And at our leisure, when we like, 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairras, 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

RECITATITO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 

As weel as poor Gut-scraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a rusty rapier — 
He swoor by a' was swearing worth, 

To split him like a pliver, 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly ee, poor Tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace wi' rueful face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But tho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinker press'd lier, 



BURNS' POEMb. 203 



Ke feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 
When thus the Caird address'd her : 



Tune—" Clout the Cauldron." 

My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinker is my station : 
I've traveled round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation ; 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and caprin, 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron ; 
And by that stowp, my faith and houp, 

And by that dear Kilbagie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er wat my craigie. 

And by "that stowp, &c. 

RECITATIYO. 

The Caird prevail'd— th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 



*A peculiar sort of whisky so called; a great favourite 
with Poosie-Nansie's club. 



2(U BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Wish'd unison between the pair, 
And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken-cavie, 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft,* 

Tho' limping* wi' the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like Daft, 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie. 

To boot that night, 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad, 

Nor want — but when he thirsted; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 

Tune— "For a' that, and a' that.' 9 

I am a bard of no regard. 

Wi* gentlefolks, and a' that 
But homer-like, the glowran byke 

Frae town to town I draw that. 



For a' that, and a' that ; 
And twice as meikle's a' that ; 

'Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad singer on record- 



burns' poems. 2d5 

I've lost but ane, I've twa behin,' 
I've wife enough for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 
Castalia's hum. and a' that ; 

But there it streams, and richly reams, 
My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Great love I hear to a' the fair, 

Their humble slave, and a' that ; 
But lordly will, I hold it still 

A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

W? mutual love, and a 3 that ; 
But for how long the file may slang, 

Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 

They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 
But clear your decks, and " Here's the f-e.v !" 
I like the jads for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that : 

And twice as meikle's a' that, 
My dearest blade to do them gude, 
They're welcome till't for a' that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard— and Xansie's wa's ' 
Shook with the thunder of applause, 

Re-echoed from each mouth; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds. 

To quench their To wan drouth. 



26Q burns' poems. 

Then owre ajrain the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To loose his pack, and wale a sang, 

A ballad o' the best ; 

He rising, rejoicing, 
Between his twa Deborahs, 

Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



Tune— " Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses" 

See the smoking howl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 
Round and round take up the chorus, 

And in raptures let us sing : 

CHOHUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title? what is treasure? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where ; 
A fig, &c. 

With the ready trick and fable, 

Round we wander all the day ; 
And at night, in barn or stable, 

Hug our doxies on the hay. 
A fig, &c. 



burns' poems. 267 



Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove? 
Does the sober bed of marriage 

Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
A fig, &c. 

Life is all a variorum, 
We regard not. how it goes ; 

Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 
A fig, &c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the "wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 



THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early; 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed 

To see me thro' the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly : 
I set her down wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley : 
I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley : 



268 BURNS 5 POEMS. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars sae bright, 

That shone that hour sae clearly, 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry drink in' ; 
I hae been joy fu' gath'rin' gear; 

I hae been happy thinkin' : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 

Corn rigs, and barley rigs, 
And corn rigs are bonnie : 

I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



SONG 

COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 

Tune — " I had a horse, I had na more?* 

Now westlin' winds, and slaught'ring guns, 

Bring Autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather : 
Xow waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night 

To muse upon my charmer. 



•269 



The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 
The plover loves the mountains ; 

The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains ; 
Through lofty groves the cushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush. 
The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ) 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The v sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flatt'ring, gory pinion ! 

But, Peggy, dear, the evening's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature; * 
And rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And ev'ry happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal showers to budding flowers, 

Xot autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, and lovely charmer ! 



270 burns' poems. 

SONG. 
Tune—" My Nannie O." 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 

'Mang moors and mosses many, O, 
The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 

And 111 awa to Nannie, O. 
The westlin' wind blaws loud and shill ; 

The night's baitii mirk and rainy, O ; 
But I'll get my plaid, and out I'll steal, 

And owre the hills to Nannie, O. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, and young ; 

Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : 
May ill beta' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 
Her face is fair, her heart is true, 

As spotless as she's bonnie, O ; 
The opening go wan, wet wi' dew, 

Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

A country lad is my degree, 

And few there be that ken me, O ; 
But what care I how few they be, 

I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 
My riches a's my penny-fee, 

And I maun guide it cannie, O ; 
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 

My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

Our auld rrudeman delights to view 
His sheep and kye thrive bonnie, O ; 

But I'm as bly the that bauds his pleugh, 
And has nae care but Nannia, O. 



BURNS POEMS. 

Come weel, come wo, I care nae by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O ; 

Nae ither care in life hae I, 
But live, and love ray Nannie, O. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 

There's nought hut care on ev'ry han', 
In every hour that passes, O : 

What signifies the life o' man, 
And 'twere not for the lasses, O. 

Green grow the rashes, O ; 

Green grow the rashes O ; 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent, 

Were spent amang the lasses, O. 

The warly race may riches chace, 
And riches still may fly them, O ; 

And though at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 
Green grow, &c. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

And warly cares, and warly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 

Green grow, &c. 

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O ; 

The wisest man the waiT e'er saw, 
He dearly lo'ed the lasses. O. 

Green grow, &c. 



272 burns' poems. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes O ; 

Her 'prentice ban' she tried on man, 
And then she made the lasses, O. 



SONG. 
Tune -" Johnny's Grey Breeks." 

Again rejoicing Nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 

All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

And maun I still on Menie dote, 
And bear the scorn that's in her ee ? 

For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hruvk, 
And it winna let a body be ! 

Tn vain to me the cowslips blaw, 

In vain to me the vi'lets spring; 
In vain to me the glen or shaw, 

The mavis and the linthwhite sin jr. 

And maun I still, &c. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks ; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wanks. 

And maun I still, &c« 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 

And maun I still, &c. 



BURNS' P0E3IS. 273 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And maun I still, &c. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings, on fluttering wings 
A wae-worn ghaist I hameward glide, 
And maun I still, &c. 

Come Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree ; 
Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul, 

When Nature all is sad like me ! 

And maun I still, &c. 



SONG. 

Tune— " Roslin Castle." 

The gloomy night is gathering fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain : 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scattered coveys meet secure, 
While here I winder, prest with care. 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She see? the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
17 t 



074 burns' poems. 

Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

'Tis not the surging billows' roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell, old Collars hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! farewell, ray foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those-- 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! 



SONG. 
Tune—" Gilder&y" 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from thy native shore : 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar ; 
But boundless oceans roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee ; 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 



burns' poems. 275 

But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part/ 

And thine that latest" sigh ! 



THE FAREWELL 

TO THE BRETHREN OP ST. JAMES'S LODGE, 
TARBOLTON. 

Tune — " Good Night, and Joy he icV you a' !" 

Adieu ! a heart-warm fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tye ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlightened few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 
With melting heart and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa\ 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme comtnand, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa'. 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath th' omniscient Eye above, 

The glorious Architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 



276 BURNS* POEMS. 

Till order bright completely shine, 
Still be my pray'r when far awa\ 

And you, farewell ! whose merits claims, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To Masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request, permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the Bard, that's far awa\ 



SONG. 



Tune— a Prepare my dear Brethren, to the 
Tavern let's fly." 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 

I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 

But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, 

And a bottle like this are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse : 
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse; 
But see you the crown how it waves in the air, 
There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 



burns' poems. 277 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

* Life's cares they are comforts'* — a maxim laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him ? that wore the black 

gown ; 
And faith I aaree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heaven of care. 



A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. 

Then fill up a bumper, and make it overflow, 

And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 

May every true brother of the compass and square, 

Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 
Tune — " Katherine Ogie." 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your v,oods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ; 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry : 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 
How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 

* Young's Night Thoughts. 



278 BURNS POEMS 

As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel-wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary ! 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly — 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary ? 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men ; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blithe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 



burns' poems -279 

But, oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin s a laird, 
And my daddy has nought but a cot-house and yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed ; * 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast 

had she but been of a lower degree, 

1 then might hae hop'd she wad sinil'd upon me I 
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



DUXCAX GRAY. 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blithe yule-night when we were fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
Maggie coost her head fu' heigh, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
Ha 5 ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and 0110*. 
Spak o'lowpin o'er a linn ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha. Sec. 



280 burns' poems. 

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may go to— France for me ! 
Ha, ha, &c. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg grew sick as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings, 
And O, her een, they spak sic things 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 
Ha, ha, &c. 

Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
How they're crouse and canty baith ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



GALLA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow brae* 
That wander thro' the blooming heathet 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daridie was nae laird, 
And tho* I hae nae meikle tocher ; 



burns' poems. 281 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 
We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure : . 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 

Tune—" The Mill, Mill O." 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
WT mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning; 
I left the lines and tented field/ 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor but honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

A hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy ; 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen, 

Where early lite I sported; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting-thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 



282 burns' poems 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet la9S, 
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 

! happy, happy may he be, 
That's dearest to thy bosom ! 

My purse is light, I've far to gang, 
And fain would be thy lodger ; 

I've serv'd my kink and country lang — 
Take pity on a sodger ; 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier grew than ever ; 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it ; 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 

She gaz'd— she redden like a rose- 
Syne pale like ony lilly, 

She sank within my arms and cried , 
Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 

By Him who made yon sun and sky — 
By whom true love's regarded, 

1 am the man ; and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded ! 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ! 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly. 

For gold the merchant ploughs the mah, 
The farmer ploughs the manor- 



burns' poems. 283 

But glory is the sodger's prize, 

The sodger's wealth is honour : 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger, 
Remember he's his country stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 

Tune — " O bonnie Lass will ye lie in a Barrack V 

3 ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? 
And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl : — 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The Miller he hetcht her a heart leal and loving ; 
She laird did address her wi' matter more moving, 
A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear-chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fix'd on the mailen! 
A tocher's nae word on a true lover's parle, 
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warP ! 



SONG. 

Tune — " Logan water." 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ! 



281 burns' poems. 

And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun, 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merr y month o' May 
Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 
The bees hum round the breathing flower- 
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And evening's tears are tears of joy ; 
My soul, delightless, a* surveys, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush, 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi, his song her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O, wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make many a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Willie hame to Logan braes! 



burns' poems. 285 



THE LEA-RIG. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin-time is near, ray jo, 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field 

Return sae dowf and weary O, 
Down by the burn, where scented birk? 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie 0. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie 0. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey, 

It raaks ray heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same 



286 burns' porms. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e. 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 

Wauken, ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 

And waft my dear laddie ance more to my arms. 

But, oh ! if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 



SONG. 

Tune— * Robin Adair." 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar ; 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close. 
Ne'er to wake more, 

Falsest of womankind ! canst thou declare, 
All my fond plighted vows— fleeting as air ! 
To thy new lover hie, 
Laugh o'er thy perjury, 
Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there ! 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU MY LAD. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll coma tc, you my lad. 



BURNS 7 POEMS. 287 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-style, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were na coming to me. 
And come, &c. 
O whistle, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me, 
Yet look, &c. 
O whistle, &c. 

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee : 
But court na anither, tho n jokin' 3-e be, 
For fear that she whyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 
O whistle, &c. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe ! 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day wi' you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie.' 

The crystal waters round us fa/ 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 
Meet me, &c. 



2S8 burns' poems. 

When purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithfu' Davie, 
Meet me, &c. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtains draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 

And that's my ain dear Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 
Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie.' 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 
And never brought to min' ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne ? 

CHORUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o'"kindness yet. 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans fine : 
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 



burns' poems. { 2&9 

We twa hae paidl't i' the bum, 

Frae morning sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

And here's a hand ray trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup, 

And surely I'll be mine : 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 



BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUGES ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham bruce has aft en led; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour — 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Traitor ! coward ! torn and flee ! 
17 u 



200 BURNS' l'OEMS. 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By our sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be — shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



SOXG. 
Tune—" CcC the Yowes Co the Knowes* 

CHORUS. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark, the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods araang ; 
Then a faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the yowes, &e. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the yowes, &c. 



burns' toems. 291 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight houis, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers. 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Ca' the yowes, &c. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nought of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the yowes, &c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die— but canna part. 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the yowes, &c. 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF V. 
Tune— " OnagWs Water-fall:' 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eye-brows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue, 
Her smiling sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto those rosy lips to grow : 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw, 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 



202 burns' poems. 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu' air ; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae marc : 
Her's are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law j 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy shew at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes her sang : 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

To say thou lo'es me best of a ; 1 



LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 
Tune — " Rothemur chits Rant" 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou tent wi' me the flocks ? 

Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee , 



burns' poems. 293 

O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 
And say thou'lt be iny dearie O ? 
Lassie wi', &c. 

And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie 0. 
Lassie wi', Sec. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's ham e ward way ; 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi', &e. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks ? 

Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that ; 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

And dare be poor for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Our toils obscure, and a* that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 



294 burns' poems. 

What tho' on namely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin grey, and a' that; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a* that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
An honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can make a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray, that come it may 

As come it will for a' that, 
When sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

Shall bear the gree, and a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
When man and man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be, and a' that. 



burns' poems. 205 

SONG. 

Tune — " Let me in this ae Night" 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet ! 
Or art thou wakin', I would wit ? 
For love has bound me, hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 



O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

O rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, &c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause. 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
O let me in, &e. 



HER ANSWER. 

O tell na me o' wind and rain ! 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

I tell you now this ae night, 
This ae, ae, ae night : 



296 burns' poems. 

And ance for a' this ae night, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nought to what poor she endures, 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her sua, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 

The bird that charm'd the summer- day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting, woman, say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 
I tell you now, &e. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune—" Humours of Glen" 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume, 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
Wi* the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave, 



burns' poems. 297 

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud 
palace, 
What are they ? — The haunt of the tyrant and 
slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, 
The brave Caledonian views with disdain ; 

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
Save love's willing fetters, the charms of his Jean. 



SONG. 
Tune — "This is no my ain House" 



O this is no my ain lassie, 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her ee. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, kc. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and fall, 
And lang has had mylieart in thrall ! 
And aye it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &e. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 

To steal a blink , by a' unseen ; 

But gleg as light as lovers' een, 

When kind love is in the ee. 

O this is no. &c. 



298 burns' poems. 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &c. 



SCOTTISH BALLAD. 
Tune—" The Lothian Lassie, 17 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 

I said there was naething I hated like men, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe me, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me. 

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, 
And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked, for Jean, 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, 
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or cared, 

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, 
But thought I might hae waur offers, 

But what wad ye think ? — in a fortnight or less, 

The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 

Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, could 

bear her, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 



burns' poems. 299 

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 

Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 

Gin she had recover'd her hearin', 
And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl't feet, 

But, heav'ns ! how he fell a swearin', a swearin* 

But, heav'ns ! how he fell a swearin'. 

Fie begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, 

Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow ; 
So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-rnorrow, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Tune—" Balinamona ora." 

A¥A wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms ; 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 



Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey, for a 

lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher; the nice yellow 

guineas for me. 



800 burns' poems. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blow9, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes. 
Then hey, &c. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest ; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, 
The langer ye hae them — the raair they're carest. 
Then hey, &c. 



SONG. 
Tune-—" Here's a health to them that's aiva, hiney. 1 

CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'edear, 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied, 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside— Jessy ! 
Here's a health, &c. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms, 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, &c. 

I guess by the dear angel-smile, 
I guess by the love-rolling ee; 
mt why urge the tender confession, 
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree— Jessy ! 
Here's a health, &e. 



burns' poems. 301 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 



Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the Birks of Aberfeldy ? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend lightsome days' 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
"he little birdies blithely sing, 
Jr lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy, 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers* 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising weets wi' misty showers, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 



30*2 burns' poems. 

BLITHE WAS SHE. 

CHORUS. 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 
Blithe was she but and ben ; 

Blithe by the banks of Em, 
And blithe in Glenturit glen. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik, 
On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw , 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Then braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blithe, &c. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn, 
;e tripp'd by the banks of Ern 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blithe, &c. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 
Blithe, &c. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, &c. 



SONG. 

Tune — " My Lodging is on the cold ground." 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair : 



burns' poems. 303 

She balmy gales awake the flowers, 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings ; 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lightly ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are there hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 

In shepherd's phrase will woo : 
The courtier tells a finer tale, 

But is his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The courtiers' gems may witness love — 

But 'tis na love like mine. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 
Tune— "Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." 

Oe a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 



304 BURNS POEMS. 

But day and night ray fancy's flight 
Is e\ er wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that spring 

By fountain shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MA If?, 

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
And Rob and Allan cam to see; 

Three blither hearts that lee-lang night 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are na fou, we're na that fou, 

But just a drappie in our ee ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw, 

And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 
We are na fou, &c. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinking in the lift sae high ; 

She shines sae bright to whyle us hame 5 
But by my sooth, she'll wait a wee 1 
We are na fou, &c. 

What first shall rise to gang awa, 
A cuckold, coward loun is he ! 



burns' poems. 305 



Wha last beside bis chair shall fa', 
He is the kino: amang us three ! 
We are na fou, Sec. 



TAM GLEN. 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me corne len', 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 

But what will I do wi'*Tam Glen ? 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might mak a fen' ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I mauna marry Tarn Glen ? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Drumeller, 
" Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben \ 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
But when will he dance like Tarn Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me ; 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My dad die says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten ; 

But, if it's ordaiu'd I maun tak him, 
wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
Mv droukit sark- sleeve as ye ken ; 
17 x 



306 burns' poems. 

His likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very grey brceks o' Tam Glen I 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearlv, Tam Glen. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WV AN 
AULD MAN ? 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 

Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the pennie, &c. 

He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enm', 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day iang ; 

He's doyl't, and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, 
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ; 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 
I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 

He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows: 
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 

I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him. 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 



burns' poems. 307 

O FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM ! 
Tune— " The Moudiewort." 

CHORUS. 

An' O, for ane and twenty, Tarn! 

An' hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 

And I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tarn , 

But three short years will soon wheel roun', 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tain ! 
An' O, for ane, &c. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 

Was left rae my auntie, Tarn; 
At kith or kin I need na spier, 

An' I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 
An' O, for ane, &c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 

Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tarn ; 
But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 

I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
An' O, for ane, &c. 



TH-E BANKS O' BOON. 

Ye banks and bra.es o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae weary ,*fu' o' care I 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 



308 burns' poems. 

Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon. 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its love, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And ray fause lover stole my rose. 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie, 
Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie ; 
He had a wife was dour and din, 
O Tinkler Maggie was her mither ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an ee, she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very colour , 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 

A whiskm* beard about her mou', 
Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife, &c. 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 
Ae limpin' leg a hand-breed shorter ; 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 

She has a hump upon her breast, 
The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sic a wife, &c. 



burns' poems. 309 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 
An' w? her loot" her face a-washin' ; 

But Willie's wife is nae sae triar, 

She dights her grunzie wi a a hushion ; 

Her walie nieves like midden-creels. 
Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water; 
Sic a wife as Willie had. 
I wad na g:ie a button for her. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? 

Wilt t'hou be my dearie ? 

When sorrows wrings thy gentle heart, 
O wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 
And' that's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow, that only thou 
Shall ever be my dearie, 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 

Or if thou wilt na be my am, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me ; 

If it winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose me ; 

Let me lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 

Lassie, let me quickly die, 

Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



SHP/S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow. she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 



310 burns' poems. 

A coof cam in wF rowth o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
But woman is but warld's gear, 
Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind : 
O woman lovely, woman fair ! 
An angel form's faun to thy share, 
Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN? 

O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'enin' sun upon ? 
The fairest dame's in yon town, 

That e'enm' sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw : 
She wanders by yon spreading tree, 

How blest ye flowers that round her blaw 
Ye catch the glances o' her ee. 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year, 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayre ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 



burns' poems. 311 

Without my love, not a' the charms 

0' Paradise could yield me joy ; 
But gie me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower ; 

Tho' raging winter rent the air 
And she a lovely little flower, 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinking sun's gane down upon ; 
A fairer than's in yon town 
His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear , 

1 careless quit all else below, 

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she— as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



THE RED, RED ROSE. 

O, my luve's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June : 

O, my luve's like the raeiodie 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas erang drv. 



312 burns' poems. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve! 

And fare thee weel, a while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



SONG OF DEATH. 

Scene— afield of battle ; time of Vie day— evening ; 
the wounded and dying of the victorious army 
are supposed to join in the following Song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye 
skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slave : 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strikes the dull peasant— he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero— a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O ! who would not rest with the brave ! 



burns' poems. 313 



IMITATION OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONG. 

By yon castle wa' at the close o' the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes name. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars : 
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd : 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faith fa' auld dame- 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the same— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 
Thou lov'st to greet the early morn, 

Again thou usher'st in the day 
My Mary from my soul was torn. 

Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 
Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 



314 BURNS 7 POEMS. 

Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
To live one day of parting love ! 

Eternity will not efface, 

Those records dear of transports past : 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green, 

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. 

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest 
The birds sang love on every spray, 

Till too, too soon, the glowing\vest, 
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 
And fondly broods with mi?er care ! 

Time but th' impression deeper makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear. 

My Marv, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 



NAEBODY. 

I hae a wife o* my ain, 
I'll partake wi' naebody : 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 

I hae a penny to spend, 
There— thanks to naebody ; 



burns' foe:»is. 315 

I hae nothing- to lend, 
I'll borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody's lord, 

I'll be slave to naebody ; 
I hae a £uid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts frae naebody ; 

I'll be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for naebody ; 
If naebodv care for me, 

I'll care for naebody. 



TO MARY. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave old Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across th' Atlantic's roar ? 

sweet grows the lime ar.d the orange, 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow ! 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand • 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand* 



316 burns' poems. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour, and the moment o' time. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley, 
As she gaed o'er the border? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever : 

For nature made her what she is, 
And ne'er made sic anither ; 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee : 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The powers aboon will tent thee, 
Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 

Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
Taat we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



burns' poems. 317 

MARY MORISON. 
Tune—" Bide ye yet:' 

Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour, 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor ; 
How blithely wad I hide the stoure, 

A weery slave frae sun to sun : 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string, 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw : 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
u Ye are na Mary Morison. " 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown : 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Liggeram Cosh." 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 
As the lambs before me ; 



31 S BURNS' PO&M& 

Careless ilka thought and free, 
As the breeze flew o'er me : 

Now nae longer sport and play, 
Mirth or sang can please me ; 

Lesley is sae fair and coy, 
Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy, is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws, 

In my bosom swelling, 
Underneath the grass -green sod, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



BONNIE JEAN. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen, 

When a' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sang sae merrilie -, 

The blithest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 



BURKS' POEMS. 319 

He gsed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
He danced wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream, 
The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Yet wist na what her ail might be, 
Or what wad make her weel again. 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 

And did na joy blink in her ee, 
As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 

As e'eing on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 
The bird sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whisperd thus hi3 tale o' love : 

" O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me 1 

" At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 

Or naething else to trouble thee ; 
But stray amang the heather bells, 

And tent the waving corn wi' me." 

Now what could artless Jeanie do? 

She had nae will to say him na; 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was aye between them twa. 



320 burns' poems. 

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY, 
Tune— " Invercauld's Reel." 

CHORUS. 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 
Ye would na been sae shy ; 

For lack o' gear ye lightlyine, 
But, trowth, I*care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fient a hair care I, 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye nae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to try. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy queen, 
That looks sae proud and high. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye '11 cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fu' dry. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 



BURNS' POEMS. 321 

Tho' hardly he for sense or lear 
Be better than the kve. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice ; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I wad na gie her in her sark, 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark \ 
Ye need na look sae high. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



SONG. 
Tune— " Fee hi?n, Father." 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death 

Only should us sever; 
Now t'hou'st left thy lass for aye,- 

I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken, 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken, 
Thou canst love anither jo, 

While my heart is breaking : 
Soon my weary een I'll close, 

Never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 
17 Y 



322 BURNS* POEMS. 

FAIR JENNY. 

Tune—" Saw ye my Father J" 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 

That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 
Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 

At evening'the wild woods among? 

No more a winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet fiow'rets so fair ; 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim, surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet lonu', long too well have I known ; 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny, alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow ; 

Come then, enamour 'd and fond of my anguish 
Enjoyment I'll seek in my wo. 



SONG. 
Tune—" To Janet." 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
Though I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, sir ! 



jb urns' poems. 3*23 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy V 

If 'tis still the lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord, 

x\nd so, good bye allegiance ! 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 
My spouse, Nancy." 

My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it ; 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Think, think how you will bear it, 

" I will hope and trust in Heav'n, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Well, sir, from the silent dead, 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt yon. 

" I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancv, Nancv. 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse Nancy." 



324 burns' poems. 

SONG. 
Tune—" Cauld hail in Aberdeen. 19 

How lang and dreary is the night 
When I am frae my dearie ; 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

CHORUS. 

For, oh ! her lanely nights are lang, 
And, oh ! her dreams are eerie ; 

And, oh! her widow'd heart is sair, 
That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 

I spent wi' thee, my dearie, 
And now what seas between us roar, 

How can I be but eerie ? 
For, oh ! «fec. 

How slowly ye move, ye heavy hours ! 

The joyless day how dreary ! 
It was na sae ye glinted by 

When I was wi' my dearie. 
For, oh ! &c. 



SONG. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day, 
The y luthf ul, charming Chloe ; 



burns' poems. 325 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flow'ry mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 



Lovely was she by the dawn, 
Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 

They hail the charming Chloe. 
Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, &c. 



SONG. 

Tune — "Lumps o' Pudding" 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
When'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
w gie them a skelp as they're creeping alang, 
vVi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faugh t : 
My mirth and good humour are coin in my pouch, 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare 
touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' ; 



326 burns' pokms. 

When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he lias past ! 

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; 
Be't to nie, be't frae me, e'en let. the jade gae : 
Come ease, or come travail, come pleasure or pain, 
My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome again !' 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY» 
Tune-" Bays Wife." 



Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 

Is this thy plighted fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? 
Canst thou, &c. 

Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That tickle heart of thine, my Karv ! 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear— 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, &c. 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 

Tunis — " There'll never be peace* c$*c." 

Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes ; 



BUKNS' POEMS. 327 

Wiille birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw •, 
Bat to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snawdrap and primrose our woodlands adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie— and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawr ; 
The shepherd to warn o' the grey- breaking dawn, 
And thon, mellow mavis, that hails the night fa/ 
Give over for pity—my Nannie's awa. 

Come, Autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, 
And sooth me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay ; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa, 



SONG. 

Tune — " Laddie, lie near me. h 

'T was na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' kindness 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me, 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest! 
And thon'rt the an^el that never can altar. 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



3-3 burns' poems. 

SONG. 
Tune — " Rothermurche" 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wiit thou lay that frown aside, 

And smile as thou were wont to do ? 

Full well thou know'st I love thee, dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
" Nor use a faithful lover so V 9 
Fairest maid, &c. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share ; 
And, by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, &c. 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 
Tune— " Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover; 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland Rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden ; 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 



burns' poems. 3*29 

The birdies dowie moaning, 

Shall a' be blithely singing, 

And every flower be springing, 
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day. 

When, by his mightly warden, 
My youth's retum'd to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



WHERE, BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. 
Tune— " N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny" 

Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochels rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who, by some savage stream 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant Death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea ; 

Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 
But nature sicken'd on the ee. 



330 BURNS 7 POEM3. 

Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Jlersel in beauty's bloom the whyle, 

And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair : 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air; 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet BallochmvL 



FAREWELL THOU STREAM. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flo ■ 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

meni'ry ! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling : 

Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover ; 
Tne bursting sigh, th' un wee ting groan. 

Betray the hapless lover. 

1 know thou doom'st me to despair, 
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 

•But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer— 
Fur pity's sake forgive me ! 

The music of thy voice I heard, 
Nor wist while it enslav'd me : 



burns' foems. 331 



I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 
Till fears no more had sav'd me ; 

The unwary sailor thus aghast, 
The wheeling' torrent viewing ; 

'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 
In overwhelming ruin. 



JOHN ANDERSON. 
Tune — " Jolxn Anderson my io* 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we w r ere first acquent ; 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw : 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
But we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go ; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

Tune— " The Rose-bud." 

A rose-bud by my early walk. 
Adown a corn-inclosed bavvk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 



332 burns' poems. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents tiie early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 

Awake the eariy morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair ! 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tents thy early morning, 
So thou sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shall beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch'd the early morning. 



THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 
Tune— "Maggy Lauder.'* 

I married with a scolding wife 

The fourteenth of November ; 
She made me weary of my life, 

By one unruly member. { 

Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many griefs attended ; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 

We liv'd full one-and-twenty years 
A man and wife together ; 



burns' poems. 333 

At length from me her course she steerd, 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her, 
But sure her soul is not in hell, 

The deil would ne'er abide her, 
I rather think she is aloft, 

And imitating thunder ; 
For why, — methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder. 



FAIR ELIZA. 
A Gaelic Aii\ 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rue on thy despairing lover! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart * 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise '. 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine would gladly die '.' 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 



331 burns' porms. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



THE PARTING KISS. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss. 
O'er the mountains he is gaue ; 

And with him is a' my bliss, 

Naught but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blithe his waukening be! 

He will think on her he loves, 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

Tune—" Druimion diihli" 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 



euros' poeiis. 335 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion. 
For his weel where'er he be. 

Hope and fears alternate billow 

Yielding late to Nature's law ; 
Whispering spirits round my pillow 

Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me, 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 



LORD GREGORY. 

O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour. 

And loud the tempest's roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 

Lord Gregory ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin love 

I lang, lang had denied ? 

How aft en didst thou pledge and vow, 
Thou wad for aye be mine ! 



33G burns' poems. 

And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 
It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 
And flinty is thy breast : 

Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, 
O wilt thou give me rest. 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare, and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH ! 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh, open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, Oh ! 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me, Oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide ; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh! 
My true love ! she cried, and sank down by his side, 

Never to rise again, Oh ! 



burns' poems. 337 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of ray soul, 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Deprived of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part— but by these precious drops, 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps, 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



CRAIGIE-BURN. 
Tune— " Craigie-burn-wood." 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-bura, 
And blithe awakes the morrow ; 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary wight can please, 



17 



896 burns' poems. 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt loveanither, 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



ISABELLA. 
Tune — " M'Gregor of Ruard's La?neni. i 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring — 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair ray fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee !" 



burns' poems. 330 



THE WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I 
shall here give it.— In the train of Anne of Denmark, when 
she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came 
over also a Danish Gentleman of gigantic stature, and great 
prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a 
little ebony Whistle, which, at the commencement of tho 
orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to 
blow it ; every body else being disabled by the potency of the 
bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. 
The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a 
single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Mos- 
cow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany ; 
and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of 
trying his prowess or else of acknowledging their inferiority. 

After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane 
was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton, an- 
cestor of the present baronet of that name; who, after three 
days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian 
under the table, 

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before-mentioned, afterwards 
lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glenriddel, who had 
married a sister of Sir Walter's.— On Friday, the 16th of 
October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more 
contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir 
Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton ; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glen- 
riddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, 
who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; 
and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarrock, likewise 
descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman 
carried off the hard-won honours of the field. 

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of -worth, 

I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 

Was "brought to the court of our good Scottish King 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. 



310 burns' poems. 

Old Loda* still rueing the arm of Fingal, 

The god of the bottle sends down from his hall- 

" This Whistle's your challenge to Scotland get o'er, 

And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me more !" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 



Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd ; 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law ; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

" By the gods of the ancients P Glenriddel replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 



See Ossian's Caric-thura. 



BURNS 7 POEMS. 841 

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er.' 7 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend 
But he ne'er turn'd his back, on his foe — or his friend, 
Said, "Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield." 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known to 

fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet, lovely 

dame. 

A Bard was selected to witness the fray 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were 
wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er : 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witnessed so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the wav that their ancestors did. 



* See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



842 BURNS* POEMS 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage ! 
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; 
But who can with fate and quart-bumpers contend ? 
Tho' fate said— a hero should perish in li°ht; 
So up rose bright Phoebus, and down fell the knight. 

Next up rose our Bard, like a prophet in drink : — 
" Craigdarroch thouFt soar when creation shall sink ; 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sublime ! 

" Thy line that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, 

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bav ; 

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day 



GLOSSARY. 



The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound 
of the English diphthong oo is commonly spelt ou. The 
French u, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish 
language, is marked oo, or ui. The a in genuine Scottish 
words, except when forming a diphthong, or followed by 
an e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like 
the broad English a in vjall. The Scottish diphthong ae, 
always, and ea, very often, sound like the French e mas- 
culine. The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the 
Latin ei. 



A', all. 

Aback, away, aloof 

Abeigh, at a shy distance 

Aboon, above, up. 

A bread, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed, in breadth. 
ie, one. 

Aff, off; aff loof, unpre- 
meditated. 

Afore, before. 

Aft, oft. 

Aften, often. 

Agley, off the right line, 
wrong. 

Ablins, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Air, early, soon ; the oak. 

Airl-penny, earnest-mo- 
ney. 

Airn, iron. 

Airt, quarter of the hea 
vens ; to direct. 



Aith, an oath. 

Aits, oats. 

Aiver, an old horse, 

Aizle, a hot cinder. 

Alake, alas ! 

Alane, alone. 

Akwart, awkward. 

Amaist, almost. 

An', and, if. 

Ance, once. 

Ane, one, an. 

Anent, over against 

Anither, another. 

Ase, ashes, 

Asteer, abroad, stirring. 

Aught, possession ; as, in 

a' my aught, in all my 

possession. 
Auldfarran, orauld farrant, 

cunning, prudent. 
Ava, at. all. 
A wo, awav. 



344 



GLOSSARY. 



Awfu', awful. 

Awn, the beard of barley, 

oats, &c. 
Awnie, bearded. 
Ayont, beyond. 

B. 
BA', ball. 

Backets, ash-boards. 
Backlins comin', coming 

back, returning. 
Bad, did bid. 
Baide, endured, did stay. 
Baggie, the belly. 
Baine, large-boned 
Bairn, a child. 
Bairn-time, a family of 

children, a brood. 
Baith, both, 
Ban, to swear. 
Bane, bone. 

Bang, to beat, to strive. 
Bardie, diminutive of bard 
Barefit, barefooted. 
Barmie, of or like barm. 
Batch, a crew, a gang, 
Batts, boots. 
Baudrons, a cat. 
Bauld, bold. 
Bawk, a ridge, a bank. 
Baws'nt, having a white 

stripe down the face* 
Be, to let be, to give over, 

to cease. 
Bear, barley. 
Beastie, dimin. of beast. 
Beet, to add fuel to fire, 
Belyve, by and by. 



Ben, in the parlour. 

Bethankit, grace after 
meat. 

Beuk, a book. 

Bicker, a kind of wooden 
dish, a short race. 

Biel, or bield, shelter. 

Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 

Big, to build. 

Biggin, building a house. 

Biggit, built. 

Bill, a bull. 

Billie, a brother, a young 
fellow. 

Bing, a heap of grain, pota- 
toes, &c. 

Birk, birch. 

Birkie, a clever fellow 

Birring, the noise of par* 
tridges, &c. when they 
spring 

Bit, crisis, nick of time. 

Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. 

Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf, 
a term of contempt. 

Blastit, blasted. 

Blate, bashful, sheepish. 

Blather, bladder. 

Blaud, a flat piece of any 
thing ; to slap. 

Blaw, to blaw, to boast. 

Bleerit, bleared, sore with 
rheum. 

Bleezing, blazing. 

Blellum,idletalkingfellow. 

Blether, to talk idly, non- 
sense. 

Bleth'rin, talking idly 



GLOSSARY. 



345 



Blink, a little while ; a, 
smiling look ; to look| 
kindly ; to shine by fits.! 



Blinker, a term of con- 
tempt. 

Blinkin, smirkin. 

Blue-gown, an authorised 
beggar. 

Bluid, blood. 

Blype,a shred, alargepieeej 

Bock, to vomit, to gash 
intermittently. 

Bocked, gushed, vomited. 

Bodle, a small copper coin. 

Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins. 

Bonnie, or bonny, hand- 
some, beautifuf. 

Bonnock, a kind of thick 
cake or bread. 

Boord, a board. 

Boortree, the shrub elder. 

Boost,behoved, must needs 

Bore, a hole in the wall. 

Botch, an angry tumour. . 

Bousing, drinking. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 

Bowt, bended, crooked. 

Brachens, fern. 

Brae, a declivity, precipice 

Braid, broad. 

Braindg't, reeled forward. 

Braik, a kind of harrow. 

Braindge, to rush rashly. I 

Brak, broke, made insol- 
vent. 

Branks, a kind of wooden 
curb for horses. 

Brash, a sudden illness. 



Brats, coarse clothes, rags, 

children, &c. 
Brattle, a short race, 

hurry, fury. 
Braw, fine, handsome. 
Brawly, or brawlie, very 

well, finely, heartily. 
Braxie, a morbid sheep. 
Breastie, dimin. of breast. 
Breastit, did spring up or 

forward. 
Breclian, fern. 
Breef. an irresistible spell. 
Breeks, breeches. 
Brent, smooth. 
Brewin, brewing. 
Brie, juice, liquid. 
Brig, a bridge. 
Brunstane, brimstone, 
Brisket, the breast. 
Blither, a brother. 
Brock, a badger. 
Brogue, a hum, a trick. 
Broo, broth, liquid, water. 
Broose, a race at country 

weddings. 
Br ugh, a burgh. 
Bruiizie, a broil. 
Brunt, did burn, burnt. 
Brust, to burst, burst. 
Buchan-bullers, the boil- 
ing of the sea on the 

coast of Buchan. 
Buckskin, a Virginian. 
Bught, a pen. 
Bughtin-time, the time of 

collecting the sheep to 

be milked. 



316 



GLOSSARY. 



Buirdly, stout made. 

Bum-clock, a hummin 
beetle. 

Bummin', hamming as 
bees. 

Bummle, to blunder. 

Bummler, a blunderer. 

Bunker, a window-seat. 

Burdies, dimin. of birds. 

Bure, did bear. 

Burn, water, a rivulet. 

Burnie, dimin. of burn. 

Buskie, bushy. 

Buskit, dressed. 

Busle, a bustle, to bustle. 

But, without. 

But an' ben, kitchen and 
parlour. 

By himself, lunatic, dis- 
tracted. 

Byke, a bee-hive. 

Byre, a cow-stable. 

C. 
CA', to call, to name, to 

drive. 
Ca't, or ca'd, called, dri 

ven, calved. 
Cadger, a carrier. 
Caff, chaff. 
Caird, a tinker. 
Cairn, a heap of stones. 
Callan, a boy. 
Caller, fresh, sound. 
Canie, or cannie, gentle, 

mild, dexterous. 
Cantie, or canty, cheerful, 

merry. 



Cantrip, a charm, a spell. 

Cap-stane, key-stone. 

Careerin, cheerfully. 

Carl, an old man. 

Carlin, a stout old woman, 

Cartes, cards. 

Caudron, a cauldron. 

Caulk and keel, chalk and 
red clay. 

Cauld, cold. 

Caup, a wooden drinking 
vessel. 

Chanter, a part of a bag- 
pipe. 

Chap, a person, a fellow, 
a blow. 

Chaup, a stroke, a blow. 

Cheekit, cheeked. 

Cheep, a chirp, to chirp. 

Chiel or cheel, a young 
fellow. 

Chimla or chimlie, a fire- 
grate, a fire-place. 

Chimla-lug, the fire-side. 

Cluttering, shivering, 
trembling. 

Chokin', choking 

Chow, to chew \ cheek for 
chow, side by side. 

Chufne, fat-faced. 

Clachan, a small village 
about a church. 

Clais, or claes, clothes. 

Claith, cloth. 

Claithing, clothing. 

Ciaivers, nonsense. 

Clap, clapper of a mill. 

Ciarkit, wrote. 



GLOSSARY . 



347 



Clash, an idle tale, the story 

of the day. 
Clatter, idle stories. 
Claught, snatched at. 
Ciaut, to clean, to scrape. 
Clauted, scraped. 
Clavers, idle stories. 
Claw, to scratch. 
Claw'd scratched. 
Cleed, to clothe. 
Cleekit, having caught. 
Clmkin', jerking, clinking'. 
Clinkumbell, who rings the 

church bells. 
Clips, sheers. 
Clishrnaclaver, idle talk. 
Clock, to hatch, a beetle, j 
Cloaking hatching. 
Cloot, hoof. 
Clootie, the Devil. 
Clour, a bump or swelling; 

after a blow. 
Coble, a fishing boat. 
Coekernony, a lock of hair 

tied upon a girl's head ; 

a cap. 
Coft, bought. 
Cog, a wooden dish. 
Coggie, dimin. of co<r. 
Coiia, from Kyle, a district 

of Ayrshire. 
Collie, a name for country 

curs. 
Collieshangie, quarrelling. 
Commaun~command. 
Cood, the cud. 
Coof, a blockhead. 
Coost, did cast. 



Cooser, a horse kept for 
mares. 

Coot, the ancle or foot. 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen 
dish ; fowls whose leg3 
are clad with feathers are 
also said to be cootie. 

Corbie?, ravens. 

Core, corps, party, clan. 

Corn't, fed with oats. 

Cotter, the inhabitants of 
a cottage. 

Couthie, kind, loving. 

Cove, a cave. 

Cowe, to terrify, to keep 
under, to lop': a fright; 
a branch of furze, broom, 
&c. 

Cowp, to barter, to tumble 
over, a gang. 

Cowpit, tumbled. 

Cowring, cowering. 

Cowte, a colt. 

Cozie, snug. 

Cozily, snugly. 

Crabbit, fretful. 

Crack, conversation, to 
converse. 

Craft, or croft, a field. 

Craiks, cries or calls in- 
cessantly, a bird. 

Crambo-clink, or crambo- 

j jingle, rhymes, doggeivl 
verseo. 

'Crank, the noise of an un- 

I greased wheel. 

Crankous.fretful, captious. 

Crauriruch. hoar frost. 



348 



GLOSSARY. 



Crap, a crop, to crop. 
Craw, crow of a cock, a 

rook. 
Creel, a basket. 
Creeshie, greasy. 
Crood, or croud, to coo as 

a dove. 
Croon, a continued moan. 
Crooning, humming. 
Crouchie, crook-backed 



Daffin, merriment, foolish- 
ness. 

Daezt, stupified, deprived 
of vigour or sensibility. 

Daft, merry, giddy, foolish. 

Dairaen, rare, now and 
then ; daimen-icker, an 
ear of corn now and then. 

Dainty, pleasant, good- 
humoured, agreeable. 



Crouse. cheerful, courage-jDales, plains, valleys. 

ous. iDaud, to thrash, to abuse. 

Crowdie, a composition of:Daur, to dare. 

oatmeal and boiled wa-!Daurg, a day's labour. 



ter, sometimes from the 
broth of beef, mutton, &c. 

Crowdie-time, breakfast- 
time. 

Crowlin, crawling. 

Crummock, a cow with 
crooked horns. 

Cuif, a blockhead. 

Cummock, a short staff. 

Curchie, a curtsy. 

Curler, a player at a game 
on the ice. 

Curlie, curled. 

Curling, a well-known 
game on the ice. 

Curmurring, murmuring, a 
slight rumbling noise. 

Curpin, the crupper. 

Cushat, the stock-dove, or 
wood-pigeon. 

Cutty, short, a spoon 

D. 
DADDIE, a father. 



Davoc, David. 
Dawd, a large piece. 
Dawtit, caressed. 
Dearies, dimin. of dears. 
iDearthfu', dear. 
Deave, to deafen. 
Deil-ma-care ! no matter ! 
Deleerit, delirious. 
Descrive, to describe. 
Dight, to wipe, to clean 

corn from chaff. 
Ding, to worst, to push. 
Dinna, do not. 
Dirl, a slight stroke or pairu 
Dizzen, or diz'n, a dozen. 
Doited, stupified. 
Dolt, stupified, crazed ; a 

stupid fellow. 
Donsie, unlucky. 
Dool, sorrow. 
Doos, doves. 
Dorty, saucy, nice. 
Douce, or douse, sober, 

wise, prudent. 



GLOSSARY. 



349 



Bought, was or were able. Eldritch, ghastly. 
Doup, backside. En\ end. 

Doure, stout, durable, sul-.Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 
len, stubborn. JEttle, to try. attempt. 

Dow, am or are able, can. jEy dent, diligent. 
DowfF, wanting force. I 
Dowie, worn with grief. F. 



fatigue. &c. 
Doylt, stupid. 

Drap, a drop, to drop. 
Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 



!FA', fall, lot, to fall. 
Fa's, does fall, waterfalls. 
jFaddonrt, fathomed. 
Eae, a foe. 



Dribble, drizzling, slaver. Faem, foam. 



Drift, a drove. 
Droddum, the breech. 
Drone, part of a bagpipe. 
Droukit, wet. 
Drounting, drawling. 
Drouth, thirst, drought. 
Drumlv, muddy. 



Faiket, unknown. 
Fairin, a present. 
Fallow, fellow. 
Fand, did find. 
Farl, a cake of bread. 
Fash, trouble, care, 
trouble, care for. 



Drummock, meal and wa- Fasht, troubled. 



ter mixed raw. 

Drunt, pet, sour humour. 
Dub, a small pond. 
Dud?, rags, clothes. 
Duddie, ragged. 
Dung, worsted ; pushed. 
Dunted, beaten, boxed. 
Dush, to push as a ram, 
&c 

E. 

EE, the eye. 

Een, the eyes. 

E'enin', evening. 

Eerie, frighted, dreading 

spirits. 
Eild, old age. 
Elbuck, the elbow ; 



Fastern-e'en.Fastens-even 
Fauld, a fold, to fold. 
Fauiding, folding. 
Fant 9 fault. 

jFawsont, decent, seemly. 
jFeal, a field, smooth. 
iFearfu', frightful. 
JFear't, frighted. 
Feat. neat, spruce. 
Fecht, to tight. 
Fechtin, fighting. 
Feck, many, plenty. 
Fecket, waistcoat. 
Feckfu', large, stout. 
Feckless, puny, weak. 
Feckly, weakly. 

x c r>5 "5" 

Feid, feud, enmity. 



3o0 



GLOSSARY. 



Fell, keen, biting; the 
flesh immediately under 
the skin ; a field pretty 
level, on the side or top 
of a hill. 

Fen, successful struggle, 
fight. 

Fend, to live comfortably. 

Ferlie, or feriey, to won- 
der ; a wonder ; a term 
of contempt, 

Fetch, to pull by fits. 

Fetch't, pulled intermit- 
tently. 

Fidge, to fidget. 

Fiel, soft, smooth. 

Fient, fiend, a petty oath. 

Fier, sound, healthy ; a 
brother, a friend. 

Fisle, to make a rustling- 
noise, to fidget, a bustle. 

Fit, a foot. 

Fittie-lan, the nearer horse 
of the hindmost pair in 
the plough. 

Fizz, to make a hissing 
noise. 

Flainen, Flannel. 

Fleech, to supplicate in a 
flattering manner. 

Fleech d, supplicated. 

Fleechin, supplicating, 

Fleesh, a fleece. 

Fleg, a random blow. 

Flether, to decoy by fair 
words. 

Fletherin, flattering. 

Flew it, a smart blow. 



Fley, to scare, to frighten, 

Fiitcher, to flutter as 
young nestlings, when 
their dam approaches. 

Flickering, to meet, to en- 
counter with. 

Flinders, shreds, broken 
pieces. 

Flingin-tree, a piece of 
timber hung by way of 
partition between two 
horses in a stable ; a flail. 

Flisk, to fret at the yoke. 

Fliskit, fretted. 

Flitter, to vibrate like the 
wings of small birds. 

Flittering, fluttering. 

Flunky, a servant in livery. 

Foord, a ford. 

Forbears, forefathers. 

Forbye, besides. 

Forfairn, worn out, jaded. 

Forfoughten, fatigued. 

Forgather, to meet with. 

Forgie, to forgive. 

Forjasket, fatigued. 

Fotiier, fodder. 

Fou', full, drunk. 

Foughten, troubled, haras- 
sed. 

Fouth, plenty, enough, or 
more than enough. 

Fow, a bushel, &c. ; also a 
pi ten -fork. 

Frae, from. 

Fraeth, froth. 

Frien', friend. 

Fu', full. 



GLOSSARY. 



351 



Fud, the ?cnt of the hare. 

&c. 
Faff,to blow intermittently 

Fuff 't, did blow. 
Funnie, full of merriment; 

mirthful. 
Fur, a furrow. 
Furm, a form, bench. 
Fyke, trifling cares; to 

piddle, to be in a fuss 

about trifles. 
Fyle, to soil, to dirty. 
Fy'lt, soiled, dirtied. 

G. 

GAB, the mouth; to speak 

boldly or pertly. 
Gaber-launzie,anoldman. 
Gadsman, ploughboy, the 
boy that drives the hor- 
ses in the plough. 
Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; 
gaen, gone ; gaun, going. 
Gaet, or gate, way, man- 
ner, road. 
Gang, to go, to walk. 
Gar, to make, to force to. 
Gar't, forced to. 
Gurten, a garter. 
Gush, wise, sagacious, 
talkative, to converse. 
•ashiri'. conversing. 
i-aucy, jolly, large. 
J-awky, half-witted, fool 
ish, romping, 
rear, riches of any kind. 
'reck, to toss the head in 
wantonness or scorn. 



Ged, a pike. 

Gentles, great folks. 

Geordie. a guinea. 

Get, a child, a young one. 

Ghaist, a ghost. 

Gie, to give ; gied, gave ; 
gien, given. 

Giftie, dimin. of gift. 

Griglets, playful girls. 

'Gillie, dimin. of gill. 

JGilpey, a half-grown, half- 
informed boy or girl, a 
romping lad, a hoiden. 

Gimmer, an ewe from one 
to two years old. 

Gin, if, against. 

Gipsy, a young girl. 

Girning, grinning. 

Gizz, a periwig. 

Giaikit, inattentive, fool- 

I ish, romping. 

'Glaive, a sword. 

Glaizie, glittering, smooth 

I like a glass. 

Glaum'd, aimed, snatched. 

Gleg, sharp, ready. 

Gieib, glebe. 

Glen, dale, deep valley. 

iGley, a squint ; to squint; 

| a-gley, orf at a side, 

; wrong. 

Glib-gabbet, that speaks 

i smoothly and readily. 

[Glint, to peep. 

iGlinted, peeped. 

Glintin', peeping. 

Gloamin', the twilight. 

Giowr, to stare, to look. 



352 



GLOSSARY. 



Glowred, looked, stared. 
Gowan, the flower of the 

daisy, dandelion, hawk 

weed, «fec. 
Gowany, gowany glens, 

daisied dales. 
Govvd, gold. 
Gowff, the game of golf ; 

to strike as the bat does 

the ball at golf. 
Gowff'd, struck. 
Gowk, a cuckoo, a term of 

contempt. 
Gowl, to howl. 
Grane, or grain, a groan, 

to groan. 
Grain'd and gaunted, 

groaned and grunted. 
Graining, groaning. 
Graip, a pronged instru- 
ment for cleaning stables 
Graith, accoutrements, 

furniture, dress, gear. 
Grannie, grandmother. 
Grape, to grope. 
Grapit, groped. 
Grat, wept, shed tears. 
Great, intimate, familiar. 
Gree, to agree ; to bear the 

gree, to be decidedly 

victor. 
Gree't, agreed. 
Greet, to shed tears. 
Greetin', crying, weeping. 
Grippet, catched, seized. 
Groat, to get the whistle 

of one's groat, to play a 

losing game. 



Grousome,loathsome,grira 

Grozet, a gooseberry. 

Grumph, a grunr, to grunt, 

Grumphie, a sow. 

Grun', ground. 

Grunstane, a grindstone. 

Gruntle, the phiz, a grunt- 
ing noise. 

Grunzie, mouth. 

Grushie, thick, of thriving 
growth. 

Gude, the Supreme Being; 
good. 

Guid, good. 

Guid-morning, good mor- 
row. 

Guid-e'en, good evening. 

Guidman and Guid wife, 
the master and mistress 
of the house ; young 
guidman, a man newly 
married. 

Gully, or gullie, a large 
knife. 

Guidfather, guidmother, 
father-in-law, and mo- 
ther-in-law. 

Gumlie, muddy. 

Gusty, tasteful. 

HA', hall. 

Ha'-bible, the great bible 
that lies in the hall. 

Hae, to have. 

Haen, had, the participle. 

Haet, fient haet, a petty 
oath of negation; no- 
thing. 



GLOSSARY. 



353 



HafFet, the temple, the! 
side of the head". 

Hafiiins, nearly half, partly 

Hag, a scar, or gulf in! 
mosses and moors. 

Haggis, a kind of puddingj 
boiled in the stomach of 
a cow or sheep. 

Hain, to spare, to save. 

Hain'd, spared. 

Hairs t, harvest. 

Haith, a petty oath. 

Haivers, nonsense, speak- 
ing without thought. 

Hal', or hald, an abiding 
place. 

Hale.whole, tight,healthy M 

Haly, holy. 

Hciiian, a particular parti- 1 
tion- wall in a cottage, orj 
more properly a seat of 
turf at the outside. 

Hallowmas, Hallow-eve, 
the 31st of October. 

Harue, home. 

Hamely, homely, affable. 

Hameward, homeward. 

Han', or haun', hand. 

Hap, an outer garment, 
mantle, plaid, &c. to 
wrap, to cover, to hap. 

Happer, a hopper. 

Happing, hopping. 

Hap, step, an' loup, hop 
skip and leap. 

Harkit, hearkened. 

Harn, very coarse linen. 

Hastit, hastened. 
17 2 a 



Hash, a fellow that neither 
knows how to dress nor 
act with propriety. 

Haud, to hold. 

Plaughs, low-lying rich 
lands ; valleys. 

Haurl, to drag, to peel. 

Haurlin', peeling. 

Haverel, a half-witted per- 
son ; half-witted. 

Ha v ins, good manners, 
decorum, good sense. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly 
one with a white face. 

Heapit, heaped, 

Healsome, healthful. 

Hearse, hoarse. 

Hear't, hear it. 

Heather, heath. 

Hech ! oh ! strange ! 

Hecnt, promised to fore- 
tell something that is to 
be got or given ; fore- 
told ; the thing foretold ; 
offered. 

Heckle, a hoard in which 
are fixed a number of 
sharp pins, used in dres- 
sing hemp, flax, &c. 

Heeze, to elevate. 

Helm, the rudder or helm. 

Herd, to tend flocks, one 
who tends flocks. 

Herry, to plunder; most 
properly to plunder 
birds' nests. 

Herry ment, plunder 'ng 
devastation. 



354 



GLOSSARY. 



Hersel , herself • also a herd 
of cattle of any sort. 

Het, hot. 

Heugh, a crag, or coal-pit. 

Hilch, a hobble, to halt. 

Pliltie-skiltie, in rapid 
succession. 

JlimseP, himself. 

Hinney, honey. 

Pling, to hang. 

Hirple, to walk crazily, 
to creep. 

Hirsel, so many cattle as 
one person can attend. 

Ilistie, dry, chapt, barren. 

Hitcht, a loop, a knot. 

PIizzie,hussy, a young girl. 

Hiddin, humble. 

Hog-score, a distance line, 
in curling, drawn across 
the rhik. 

Plog-shouther, justling 
with the shoulder ; to 
justle. 

Hool, outer skin or case. 

Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 

Hoolie ! take leisure. 

Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard 

Hoordit, hoarded. 

Horn,a spoon made of horn, 

Plornie, the devil. 

Host, or hoast, to cough. 

Hotch'd, turned topsy- 
turvy, mixed. 

Houghmagandie, fornica- 
tion. 

Houp, hope. 

Houlet, an owl. 



Plousie, diiiiin. of house. 

Hove, to heave, to swell. 

Howdie, a midwife, 

Howe, hollow, a hollow. 

Howebackit, sunk in the 
back. 

Howff, a house of resort. 

Howk, to dig. 

Hoy, to urge. 

Hoyse, a pull upwards. 

Hoyte, to amble crazily. 

Hughoc, dimin. of PI ugh. 

Hunkers, the ham,the hin- 
der part of the thigh. 

Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 

Hurdies, the loins, the 
crupper. 

Hushion, a cushion. 

I, 

I', in. 

Icker, an ear of corn. 
Ier-oe, a great grandchild 
Ilk, or ilka, each, every. 
Ill-willie, ill-natured, ma- 
licious, niggardly. 
Ingine, genius, ingenuity. 
Ingle, fire, fire-place. 
I'se, I shall or will. 
Ither, other, one another. 



J AD, jade ; also a familiar 

term for a giddy young 

girl. 

Jauk, to dally, to trifle 

Jaw, course raillery, to 

pour out as water. 



GLOSSARY. 



355 



Jaup, a jerk of water. jKin, kindred ; Kin', kind. 
Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl. [Kin^'s-hood, a certain part 
Jimp, to jump, slender, of the entrails of an ox, 

handsome. ! &c. 

Jink, to dodge, to turn a f Kintra, country. 



corner, a sudden turning. 
Jinker, that turns quickly, 

a sprightly girl, a wag. 
Jirk, a jerk. 
Jocteleg, a kind of knife, 



Kintra-cooser, a country 

stallion. 
Kirn, the harvest supper, 

a churn. 
Kirsen, to baptize. 



Jouk, to stoop, to bow the Kist, a chest. 

head. 'Kitchen, any thing that 

Jow, to jow, the swinging| eats with bread, to serve 

motion and pealing; for soup, gravy, &c. 



sound of a large bell. 
Jundie, tojustle, 



Kith, kindred. 
Kittle, to tickle, ticklish, 
lively. 
K. Kittlin, a young cat. 

KAE, a daw. Kuittle, to cuddle. 

Kail, cole wort, a kind o^Knappin-hammer, a ham- 
broth, i mer for breaking stones. 

Kail-runt, the stem oflKnowe, a round hillock, 
cole wort. Knurl, a dwarf. 

Kain, fowls, &c. paid as Kye, cows, 
rent by a farmer. Kyle, a district in Ayrshire, 

Kebbuck, a cheese, 'Kyte, the belly. 

Keek, a peep, to peep. iKy the, to discover, to shew 

Kelpies, mischievous spi-i one's self, 
rits, said to haunt fords 
and ferries at night. | L. 

Ken, to know. 'LAGGEN, the angle be- 

Kennin, a small matter. I tween the side and bot- 

Kenspeckle, well known. ; torn of a wooden dish. 

Ket, matted, hairy. ILaigh, low. 

Kiaugh, carking anxiety. ! Lairing, sinking in snow, 

Kilt, to truss up the clothes mud, &c. 

Kimmer, a young girl, a Laith, loath, 
gossip. ILaithfu', bashful. 



350 



GLOSSARY. 



Lallans, Scottish dialect. 

Lambie, dirain. of lamb. 

Lampit, a kind of shell fish. 

Lan', land, estate. 

Lane, lone ; my lane, thy 
lane, &c. myself alone.* 

Lanely, lonely. 

Lang, lon^, to weary. 

Lap, did leap. 

Lave, the rest, the remain- 
der. 

Laverock, the lark. 

La win, reckoning. 

Lawlan', lowland. 

Lea, pasture ground, un- 
ploughed. 

Lea'e, to leave. 

Leal, loyal, true. 

Lea-rig, grassy ridge 

Lear, learning. 

Lee-lang, live-long. 

Leesome, pleasant. 

Leeze-me, a phrase of en- 
dearment, I am happy or 
proud of thee. 

Leister, a three-pronged 
fish-dart. 

Leugh, did laugh. 

Leuk, a look, to look. 

Libbet, gelded. 

Lift, sky. 

Lightly, sneeringly. 

Lilt, a ballad, a tune, to 
sing. 

Limmer, a kept mistress, 
a strumpet. 

Limp't, limped, hobbled 

Link, to trip along. 



Linn, a waterfall, a pre- 
cipice. 
Lint, flax ; lint i' the bell, 

flax in flower. 
Lintwhite, a linnet. 
Loan, or loaning, the place 

of milking 
Loof, the palm of the hand. 
Loot, did let. 
jLooves, plural for loof. 
i Louri, a fellow, a raga- 
I muffin, a woman of easy 

virtue. 
Loup, jump, leap. 
Lowe, a flame. 
Lowrie, Lawrence. 
Lowse, to loose. 
Lug, the ear, a handle. 
Lugget, having a handle. 
Luggie, a small wooden 

dish with a handle. 
Lura, the chimney. 
Lunch, a large piece of 

cheese, flesh, &c. 
Lunt, a column of smoke; 

to smoke. 
Lyart, grey. 

M. 

MAE, more. 

Mair, more. 

Maist, most, almost. 

Maistly, mostly. 

Mak, to make. 

Mailen, farm. 

Mailie, Molly. 

Mang, among. 

Manse,the minister's house 



GLOSSARY. 



357 



Manteele, a mantle. 

Mark, marks, (This and se- 
veral other nouns which 
in English require an s 3 
to form the plural, are 
in Scotch, like the word? 
sheep, deer, the same in 
both numbers.) 

Mar's year, the year 1715.1 

Mashium, Meslin, mixed 
corn. 

Mask, to mash. 

Maskin'-pat, a tea-pot. 

Maukin, a hare. 

Maun, must. 

Mavis, the thrush. 

Maw, to mow. 

Meere, a mare. 

Meickie, or Meikle, much. 

Melancholius, mournful. 

Melder, corn, or grain, 
sent to be ground. 

Mell, to mingle, a mallet. 

Melvie, to soil with meal. 

Men', to mend. 

Mense, good manners. 

Menseless, ill-bred, rude. 

Messin, a small dog. 

Midden, a dunghill. 

Midden-creels, baskets for 
holding dung. 

Midden-hole, a gutter as 
a dunghill. 

Mim,prnn, affectedly meek 

Min', mind, remembrance. 

Mind't, mind it, resolved, 
intending. 

Minnie, mother dam I 



Mirk, dark. 

Misca', to abase, to call 
names. 

Misleard, mischievous, 
unmannerly. 

Misteuk, mistook. 

Mither, a mother. 

Mixtie-muxtie, confusedly 
mixed. 

Moil, labour. 

Moistify, to moisten. 

Mony, or Monie. many. 

Moop, to nibble as a sheep. 

Moorlan', of or belonging 
to moors. 

Morn, to morrow. 

Mou, the mouth. 

Moudiwort, a mole. 

Mousie, dim in. of mouse. 

Muckle, or Mickle, great, 
big, much. 

Musie, dimin. of muse. 

Muslin-kail, broth, com- 
posed simply of water, 
shelled barley & greens, 

Mutchkin, an English pint* 

Mysel, myself. 

X. 

XA, no, not, nor. 
I\ T ae, no, not any. 
Xaig, a horse. 
Nappy, ale. 
Negleckit, neglected. 
Xeuk, nook. 
Niestj next. 
Xieve, the fist. 
Xiifer, an exchange. 



358 



GLOSSARY. 



Nigger, a Negro. 
Nine-tail'd-cat, a hang- 
man's whip. 
Nit, a nut. 
Norland, north land. 
Nowte, black cattle. 

O. 

O', ox. 

Ochels,name of mountains 

O haith ! O faith ! an oath 

Ony, or Onie, any. 

Or, is often used for ere. 

Ora, or Orra, superfluous, 
unwanted. 

O't, of it. 

Oughtlins, in the least de- 
gree. 

Ourie, shivering, drooping. 

Oarsel,or oursels,ourselves 

Outlers, cattle not housed 

Ower, over, too. 

Owre-hip, a way of fetch- 
ing a blow w T ith the 
hammer over the arm. 

P. 

PACK, intimate, familiar; 
twelve stone of wood. 

Painch, paunch. 

Paitrick, a partridge. 

Pang, to cram. 

Parle, speech. 

Parritch, oatmeal pud- 
ding. 

Pat, did put, a pot. 

Pattle, or pettle, a plough- 
staff. 



Paughty, proud, haughty. 

Pauky, or Pawkie, cun- 
ning, sly. 

Pay't, paid, beat. 

Pech, to fetch the breath 
short, as in an asthma. 

Pechan, the stomach. 

Pet, a domesticated sheep, 
&c. 

Pettle, to cherish. 

Piiillibegs, short petti- 
coats worn by the High- 
landmen. 

Phraise, fair speeches, 
flattery, to flatter. 

Phraisin* flattery. 

Pibroch, a Highland war- 
song adapted to the 
bagpipe. 

Pickle, a small quantity. 

Pine, pain, uneasiness. 

Pit, to put. 

Placad, a public procla- 
mation. 

Plack, an old Scottish coin, 
the third part of a Scotch 
penny, twelve of which 
make an English penny. 

Plackless, pennyless. 

Plaid, an outer loose gar- 
ment. 

Platie, dimin. of plate. 

Plew, or Pleugh, a plough. 

Pliskie, a trick. 

Pock, a bag, a small sack. 

j Poind, to seize on cattle. 

Poorttth, poverty. 

Pou, to pull. 



GLOSSARY. 



359 



Pouk, to pluck. 

Pouse, to push, to pene- 
trate. 

Poussie, a hare, a cat. 

Pout, a poult, a chick. 

Pou't, did pull. 

Pouthery, like powder. 

Pow, the head, the skull. 

Pownie, a little horse. 

Powther, powder. 

Preen, a pin. 

Prent, Printing. 

Prie. to taste. 

Prie'd, tasted. 

Prief, proof. 

Prig,to cheapemto dispute, 

Prirnsie, demure, precise. 

Propone, to lay down, to 
propose. 

Proposes, provosts. 

Pyle, a pyle o' caff, a sin 
gle grain of chaff. 

Q. 

QL AK, to quake. 
Quat, to quit. 
Quey, a cow from one to 
two vears old. 



R. 

RAGWEED, herb rag- 
wort. 

Raible, to rattle nonsense. 

Rair, to roar. 

Raize, to madden, to in- 
flame. 

Ram-feezl'd, fatigued. 
overspread. 



'Ram-stam, thoughtless, 
forward 

Raploch, properly a coarse 
cloth, but used as an 
ad noun for coarse. 

Rarely, excellently. 

Rash/ a rush ; rash-buss, a 
bush of rushes. 

Ratton, a rat. 

Raucle, stout, fearless. 

Raught, reached. 

Raw, a row. 

Rax to stretch. 

Ream, cream ; to cream. 

Reamin, brimful, frothing. 

Reave, rove. 

Reck, to heed. 

,Rede, counsel, to counsel. 

iRed-wat-shod, walking in 

\ blood over the shoe-tops. 

Red-wud, stark mad. 

jRee. half-drunk, fuddled. 

Reek, smoke. 

jRemead, remedy. 

'Rest, to stand restive. 

Restit, stood restive.stunt- 
ed, withered. 

Rew, repent. 

Rief. reef, plenty. 

Rief randies, sturdy beg- 
gars. 

Rig, a ridge. 

Riii, to run, to melt. 

Rink, the course of the 
stones in curling on ice. 

Rip, a handful of un- 
threshed corn. 

Riskit, mr.de a noise. 



3G0 



GBOSSAR*. 



Rockin', spinning on the.Sconner, a loathing, to 



rock, or distaff; 
Roon, a slired. 
Roose, to praise. 
Roopet, hoarse. 
Routine, plentiful. 
Row, to roll, to wrap. 

Rowte, to low, to bellow. [Scrimp, to scant, 
Rowth, or routh, plenty. !See'd, did see. 
Rozet, rosin. ;Sel, self; a body's 

Rung, a cudgel. | one's self alone. 

Rankled, wrinkled. SelPt, did sell. 

Runt, the stem of colewort Sen*, to send 



loathe. 
|Scraich, to scream as a 
| hen, partridge, &c. 
iSereed, to tear, a rent. 
tScrieve, to glide swiftl\ 

along. 



sel. 



or cabbage. 
Ruth, sorrow. 

S. 
SAE, so. 

Saft, soft. 

Sair, to serve, a sore. 

Sairly, or sairlie, sorely. 

Sair't served. 

Sark, a shirt. 

Saugh, the willow. 

Saul, soul. 

Saumont, salmon. 

S a iint, a saint. 

Saut, salt. 

Saw, to sow. 

Sax, six. 

Scairh, or skaith, to da 

mage, to injure. 
Scar, to scare, a scar. 
Scaud, to scald. 
Scauld, to scold. 
Scaur, apt to be scared. 
Seawl, a scold. 
Scone, a kind of bread. 



Settling settling ; to get a 
sectlin', to be frighted 

| into quietness. 

iShaird, a shred, a shaird. 

Shangan, a stick cleft at 

' one end for putting tin 

I tail of a dog, &c. into. 

Shaver, a humerou3 wag 

! a barber. 

jShaw, to shew, a smal 
wood in a hollow place* 

Sheen, bright, shining, 

Sheep-shank, to think 
one's self nae sheep- 
shank, to be conceited. 

Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, 
a sluice. 

Shiel, a shed. 

Shill, shrill. 

Siiog, a shock, a push off 
at one side. 

•Shoal, a shovel. 

iShoon, shoes. 

| Shore, to offer, to threaten. 

'Shouther, the shoulder. 



GLOSSARY. 



381 



Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady. 

Sidelins, sidelong, slanting 

Siller, silver, money. 

Simmer, summer. 

Sin, a son. 

Sin', since. 

Skellum,a worthless fellow 

Skeip, to strike, to walk! 

with a smart trip pin gj 

step, a smart stroke. 
Skelpi-lirnmer, a technical 

term in female scolding. 
Skelpin,stepping,walking.| 
Skiegh, or Skeigh, proud,j 

nice, high -mettled. 
Skinklin, a small portion. 
Skirl, to shriek, to cry 

shrilly. 
SkirPt, "shrieked. 
Sklent, slant, to ran aslant,! 

to deviate from truth. | 
Skreigh, a scream, to! 

scream. 
Slae, sloe. 
Slade, did slide. 
Slap, a gate, a breach in ai 

fence. 
Slaw, slow. 

Siee, sly ; Sleest, slyest. 
Sleekit, sleek, sly. 
Siiddery, slippery. 
Slvpe, to fall over. 
Slypet, fell. 
Sma', small. 
Smeddum, dust, powder, 

mettle, sense. 
Smiddy, a smithy. 



Smoother, to smoother. 

Smoor'd, smothered. 

Smourie, obscene. 

Smyrrie, a numerous col- 
lection of small indivi- 
duals. 

Snapper, stumble. 

Snash. abuse, Billingsgate 

Suaw, snow, to snow. 

Snaw-broo, melted snow. 

Sneek, latch af a door. 

Sned, to lop, to cut off. 

Sneeshin, snuff. 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box 
neli, bitter, biting. 

Snick-drawing, trick-con- 
triving. 

Snick, the latchet of a door 

Snool, one whose spirit is 
broken with oppressive 
slavery ; to submit 
tamely, to sneak. 

Snoove, to so smoothlyand 
constantly, to sneak. 

Snowk, to scent or snuff 
as a dog. 

Sonsie, having sweet en- 
gaginglooks, lucky, jolly 

Soom, to swim. 

Sooth, truth, a petty oath 

Sough, or sugh, a sigh, a 
sound dying on the ear. 

Souple, flexible, swift. 

Soucer, a shoemaker. 

Sowens, a dish made of the 
seeds of oatmeal soured 
and boiled up to make 
a pudding. 



362 



GLOSSARY. 



Sowp, a spoonful, a small Squatter, to flutter as a 
quantity of any thing! wild-duck, &c. 
liquid. ! Squattie, to sprawl. 



Sowth, to try over a tune 
with a low whistle. 

Sowther, solder, to solder, 
to cement. 

Spae, to prophesy ,todivine 

Spaul, the loin bone. 

Spairge, to dash, to spoil. 

Spaviet, having the spavin 

Sueat, or spate, a sweep- 
ing torrent, after rain or 
thaw. 

Speel, to cliurt). 

Spence, the parlour. 

Spier, to ask, to inquire. 

Spier't, inquired. 

Splatter, a splutter, to 
splutter. 

Spleughan, a tobacco 
pouch. 

Splore, a frolic, a noise 



Squeel, ascream, a screech, 

to scream. 
Stacher, to stagger. 
Stack, a rick of corn, hay, 

&c. 
Staggie, dimin. of stag. 
Stalwart, strong, stout. 
Stan, to stand; stan't, did 

stand. 
Stane, a stone. 
Stank, did stink; a pool 

of standing water. 
Stap, stop. 
Stark, stout. 
Startle, to run as cattle 

stung by the gadfly. 
Staumrel, a blockhead, 

half-witted. 
jStaw, did steal, to surfeit. 
jStech, to cram the belly. 



Sprattle, to scramble. Steek, to shut, a stitch. 
Spreckled, spotted, speck-jSteer, to molest, to stir. 

led. iSteeve, firm, compact. 

Spring, a quick air in mu-iStell, a still. 

sic, a Scottish reel. Sten, to rear as a horse. 



Sprit, a plant, something- 
like rushes. 
Spunk, fire, mettle, wit. 



Stents, tribute, dues of 

any kind. 
Stey, steep. 



Spunkie,mettlesome,tiery;|Stibble, stubble; stibble- 
will-o'-wisp, or ignis I rig, the reaper who 
fatuus. I takes the lead. 

Spurtle, a stick used injStick an' stow, totally, al- 
making pudding or por-i together, 
ridge. IStilt, a crutch : to halt, to 

Squad, a crew, a party. ]imp. 



GLOSSARY. 



363 



Stimpart, the eighth of a 
Winchester bushel. 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a 
year old. 

Stock, a plant or root of 
coiewort, cabbage, ice. 

Stockin', stocking ; throw- 
ing the stockin', when 
the brideand bridegroom 
are put into bed. and the 
candle out, the former 
throws astocking at ran- 
dom among the compa- 
ny, and the personwhom 
it strikes is the next that 
will be married. 

Stooked.made up in shocks 
as corn. 

Stoor, sounding hollow. 
strong and hoarse. 

Stot, an ox. 

Stoop, or Stowp. a kind of 
jug with a handle. 

Stoure, dust. 

Stowlins, by stealth. 

Stowen, stolen. 

Stoyte, stumble. 

Strack, did strike. 

Strae, straw; to die a fair 
strae death, to die in bed 

Straik. did strike. 

Straikit, stroked. 

Strappan, tall and hand- 
some. 

Straught. straight. 

Streek, stretched, to 
stretch. 

Stroan, to spout, to piss. 



Studdie, at anvil. 
Stumpie, dimin. of stump. 
Strum, spirituous liquor 

of any kind ; to walk 

sturdily. 
Sturtin, frighted. 
Sucker, sugar. 
Sud, should. 
Sutkron, southern, an old 

name for the English 

nation. 
Swaird, sward. 
Swall'd. swelled. 
Swank, stately, jolly. 
Swankie, or swanker, a 

tight strapping young 

fellow or girl. 
Swap, an exchange, to 

barter. 
Swarf, swoon. 
Swat, did sweat. 
Swatch, a sample. 
Swats, drink, good ale. 
Sweating sweating. 
Sweer, lazy, averse ; dead- 

sweer, extremely averse 
Swoor, swore, did swear. 
Swinge, to beat, to whip. 
Swirl, a curve, an eddying 

blast, or pool, a knot in 

wood. 
Swirlie, knaggy j full of 

knots. 
Swith, get away. 
S wither, to hi sitate in 

choice, an irr.-soiute wa- 

verinj; in choice. 
Syne, since, ago, then. 



364 



GLOSSARY. 



TACKETS, akind of nails, 
for driving into the heels 
of shoes. 

Tae, a toe ; three-tae'd 
having three prongs. 

Tairge, target. 

Tik, to take ; takin^taking 

Tangle, a sea-weed. 

Tap, the top. 

Tapetless, heedless, foo' 
ish. 

Tarrow, to murmur at one's 
allowance. 

Tarrow't, murmured. 

Tarrv-breeks, a sailor. 

Tauld, or tald, told. 

Taupie, a foolish thought- 
less young person. 

Tauted, or tautie, matted 
together; spokenofhair 
or wool. 

Tawie, that allows itself 
peaceably to be han- 
dled ; spoken of a horse, 
cow, &c. 

Teat, a small quantity. 

Tedding, spreading after 
the mower. 

Thin-hours- bite, a slight 
feed to the horses while 
in the yoke, in the fore- 
noon. 

Tent, a field pulpit, heed, 
caution, take heed. 

Tentie, heedful, cautious. 

Tentless, heedless. 

Teugh, tough. 



Thack, thatch ; thack an 
rape, clothing. 

Thae, these. 

Thairms, small-guts, fid- 
dle strings. 

Thankit, thanked. 

Theekit, thatched. 

Thegither, together. 

Thernsels, themselves. 

Thick, intimate, familiar. 

Thieveless, cold, dry, spit- 
ed; spoken of a person's 
demeanour. 

Thir, these. 

Thirl, to thrill. 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 

Thole, to suffer, to endure. 

Thowe, a thaw, to thaw. 

Thowless, slack, lazy. 

Thrang, throng, a crowd. 

Thrapple, throat,windpipe 

Thraw, to sprain, to twist, 
to contradict. 

Thrawin', twisting, &c. 

Thravvn, sprained, twisted, 
contradicted, contradic- 
tion, m 

Threap, to maintain by 
dint of assertion. 

Threshin', thrashing. 

Threteen, thirteen. 

Thristle, thistle. 

Through, to go on with, 
to make out. 

Throuther, pell-mell, con- 
fusedly. 

Thumpit, thumped. 

Thysel', thyself. 



GLOSSARY. 



365 



rrewSj trousers. 
jTrickie, full of tricks. 



Thud, to make a loud in- Transmogrify'd, transmi- 

terraittent noise ; a blow grated, metamorphosed. 

producing a dull heavy Trashtrie, trash. 

sound. 
Till't, to it. 
Tiramer, timber, 
Timmer-propt, 

with timber. 
Tine, to lose ; tint, lost. 
Tinkler, a tinker. 
Tint the gate, lost the way 
Tip, a ram. 
Tippence, two-pence. 



iTrig. spruce, neat 
propped Trimly, excellently. 
Trow, to believe. 
Trowth, truth, a petty oath 
Trysted, appointed ; to 
tryste, to make an ap- 
pointment. 
iTry't, tried. 
Tirf, to make a slight 'Tui, raw hide, of which, 



noise, to uncover. 
Tiriin', uncovering. 
Tither, the other. 
Tittle, to w 7 hisper. 
Tittlin, whispering. 



in old times, ploujh- 
| traces were frequently 
I made. 

iTulzie, a quarrel ; to quar- 
I relj to fight. 
Tocher, marriage portion. ! Twa, two. 
Tod, a fox. Twa-tkree, a few. 

Toddle, to totter like the Twad, it would. 

walk of a child. Twa, twelve ; twal-pennie 

Toddlin', tottering. | worth, a small quantity, 

Toom, empty. one English pennyworth 

Toop, a rarm Twin, to part. 

Toun, a hamlet, a farm- Tyke, a dog. 

house. 
Tout, the blast of a horn U. 

or trumpet, to blow a US CO, strange, uncouth, 
horn, &e. very, very great, prodi- 

To,v, a rope. gious. 

Towmond, a twelvemonth. Uncos, news. 
Towzie, rough, shaggy. Unfauld, unfold. 
Toy, a very o'.d fashion of Unkenn'd, unknown, 

female head-dress. Unsicker. unsure. 

Toyte, to totter like old Unskaitird, undamaged, 
age. Unweeting, unknowingly - 



3(50 



GLOSSARY. 



Upo', upon. 
Urchin, a hedgehog. 

V. 

VAP'RING, vapouring, 
bullying, bragging. 

Vauntie, vain, proud. 

Vera, very. 

Virl, a ring round a co- 
lumn, &c. 

W. 
WA', wall. 

Wa's, walls. 
Wabster, a weaver. 
Wad, would, to bet, a bet, 

to pledge. 
Wadna, would not. 
Wae, woe, sorrowful. 
Waesucks! or waes me! 

alas ! O the pity. 
Waft, the cross thread that 

goes from the shuttle 

through the web ; woof. 
Waifu,' wailing. 
Wair, to lay out, to ex 

pend. 
Wale, choice, to choose. 
Wal'd, chose, chosen. 
Walie, ample, large, jolly ; 

also an interjection of 

distress. 
Wame, the belly. 
Wamefu', a belly full. 
Wanchansie, unlucky. 
Wanrestfu', restless. 
Wark, work. 
Warle, or warld, world 



Wark-lume, a tool to work 

with. 
Warlock, a wizard. 
Warly, worldly, eager on 

amassing wealth. 
Warran', a warrant, to 

warrant. 
Warst, worst. 
Warstl'd, or warsl'd, 

wrestled. 
Wastrie, prodigality. 
Wat, wet ; I wat, I wot, 

I know. 
Water-brose, brose made 

of oatmeal and water. 
Wattle, a twig, a wand. 
Wauble, to swing, to reel. 
Waught, draught. 
Waukit, thickened as ful- 
lers do cloth. 
Waukrife, not apt to sleep. 
Waur, worse, to worst. 
Waur't, worsted. 
Wean, or weanie, a child. 
Wearie, or weary ; monie 

a wearie body, many a 

different person. 
Weason, weasand. 
Weaving the stocking. 

See throwing; the stock- 
ing, page 363. 
Wee, little ; wee .things, 

little ones ; wee bit, a 

small matter. 
Weel, well. 
Weelfare, welfare. 
Weet, rain, wetness. 
Weird, fate. 



GLOSSARY. 



367 



We'se, we shall. 

Wha, who. 

Whaizle, to wheeze. 

Whalpit, whelped. 

Whang, a leathern string, 
a piece of cheese, bread 
&c. ; to give the strap- 
pado. 

Whare, where ; whare'er, 
wherever. 

Whase, whose. 

Whatreck, nevertheless. 

Whaup, the curlew; a kind 
of water- fowl. 

Wheep, to fly nimbly, to 
jerk ; penny-wheep. 
small-beer. 

Whid, the motion of a 
hare, running but not 
frighted, a lie. 

Whiddin', running as a 
hare or coney. 

Whigraeleeries, whims, 
fancies, crotchets. 

Whingin', crying, com- 
plaining, fretting. 

Whirligigums, useless or- 
naments. 

Whirrin', whirring ; the 
sound made by the flight 
of the partridge, &e. 

Whisht, silence. 

Whisk, to sweep, to lash. 

Whiskit, lashed. 

Whissle, a whistle ; to 
whistle. 

Whitter, a hearty draught 
of liquor. 



Whunstane, a whinstone. 
Whyles, sometimes. 
WT with. 
Wick, to strike a stone in 

an oblique direction ; a 

term in curling. 
Wicker, willow, (the 

smaller sort). 
Widdieful, wrathful, angry, 

raging ; one deserving 

the gallows. 
Wiel, a small whirlpool. 
Wifie, a diinin. or-endear- 

ing term for wife. 
Willyart, bashi'ul,reserved, 

timid. 
Wimple, to meander. 
Win', to wind, to winnow. 
Win't, winded, as a bobbin 

of yarn, 
Win' wind ; win's, winds. 
Winna, will not. 
Winnock, a window. 
Winsome, hearty, vaunted, 

gay. 
Wintle, a staggering mo- 
tion -, to stagger, to reel. 
Winze, an oath. 
Wiss, to wish ; to have a 

strong desire. 
Withoutten, without. 
Witless, simple, easily 

imposed on. 
Wizen'd, dried, shrunk. 
Wonner, a wonder, a con- 
temptuous appellation. 
Wons, dwells. 
I Woo', wool. 



308 



GLOSSARY. 






Wyte, blame, to blame. 



Woo, to court, to make 
love to. 

Woodie, a rope, more pro- Y. 

perly one made of withs YE ; this pronoun is fre- 
or willows. I quentiy used for thou. 

Wooer-bab, the garter: Year, is used both for sin- 
knotted below the kneel gular and plural, years, 
with a couple of loops. ! Yearlings, born in the same 

Wordy, worthy. j year, coevals. 

Worset, worsted. [Yearns, longs much. 

Wew, an exclamation oflYell, barren, that gives no 
pleasure or wonder. I milk. 

Wrack, to teaze, to vex. Yerk, to lash, to jerk. 

Wraith, a spirit, a ghost ;!Yerkit, jerked, lashed, 
an apparition exactly I Yestreen, yesternight, the 
like a living person,! night before, 
whose appearance isjYett, a ^ate, such as is 



said to forbode the per- 
son's approaching death. 

Wrangr, wrong, to wrong. 

Wreath, drifted snow. 

Writers, attorneys, law- 
yers. 

Wud, mad, distracted. 

Wuinble, a wimble. 

Wyle, beguile. 

Wy liecoat, a flannel vest. 



usually at the entrance 
into a farm-vard or field. 

Yill, ale. 

Yird, earth. 

Yokin, yoking, about. 

Yont, beyond. 

Yoursel', yourself. 

Yowe, an ewe. 

Yowie, dimin. of ewe. 

Yule, Christmas. 



THE END. 



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